The Aftermath
by aurelia2006
Summary: How is it that Barbossa was able to sack Port Royale with practically no opposition? Was there additional help from within? Commodore James Norrington and the rest of the cast return to figure it out. Bad summary but give it a chance.
1. Chapter 1

The Caribbean sun shone hot and brightly upon the upper class of Port Royale, gathered once again in the courtyard of Fort Charles. Lately the weather had become unbearable. The wind did not stir, nor in fact did the people. Ever since the Black Pearl incident there was no wind, no rain, nothing to sustain the large plantations further back in the island nor anything to compel the ships to arrive faster in the port.

_Wonderful James, what a gorgeous day to pick to get married._ Elizabeth thought silently to herself as she fidgeted with her large, and expensive dress. Her fawn colored hair had been intricately curled and pinned for this occasion. She looked over wistfully to the battlements and smiled slightly at the memory of James's proposal. One of the worst in history to be sure, and she was there now before all these people as a testament of her devotion to a promise, to love.

She looked over the crowd in the courtyard. All of Port Royale it seemed, was there. Her father stood by the Commodore, undoubtedly giving him some last minute advice.

Sighing, Elizabeth squared her shoulders and began to walk through the courtyard. A saunter, really, for she wanted everyone to see her, to quell the rumors and the stares that had so plagued her and James for the last few weeks. James looked up as if on cue and startled as he saw her approach. Her father began to walk away, shooting James one final, meaningful glance and took his seat.

Elizabeth stepped up to him and in a near whisper said, "I wanted to congratulate you, Commodore on your marriage."

He narrowed his eyes at once and looked to his right. "It would do you well to take your place now, Mrs. Turner."


	2. Chapter 2

Lieutenant Nathaniel Gillette sighed. He hated these things, and unfortunately there seemed to be plenty of weddings to go to lately. Nathaniel also knew that soon he too would have to attend his own. Yet he did have to concede to himself that this was a refreshing change from his cot in the sick wing. He looked down at his right leg furtively. It was permanently stiff, and he knew that his superiors worried about it. What was the use of a commander who could not keep up with his crew, after all? To further heighten things, during the engagement with the Black Pearl, Gillette had been seriously wounded. It was a struggle for him to stand for long periods of time and at Sparrow's hanging he had reopened his wounds. This cost Nathaniel an extra few weeks in the hospital wing.

It irritated him to no end that he could not go out there and be of some use. He huffed impatiently and glared at an all too familiar face. Mrs. Elizabeth Turner. Unconsciously, Gillette's face contorted in disgust. Mrs. Turner had done nothing in the weeks after the attack to improve her standing in his mind. True, she had donated quite a considerable lot of money to rebuilding the city, and even some of her time. But there was something missing. There was such a capacity for compassion of the pirates and townspeople, but apparently she could find very little for the Navy.

"For heaven's sake Nathaniel, are you going to stand there all day glaring at Mrs. Turner?"

Nathaniel groaned and turned to see his good friend, Lieutenant Theodore Groves approach.

Groves smiled good-naturedly and gestured to the crowd. "Come now, look at all these pretty ladies. Surely there is at least one that can tempt you, Gillette?"

Rolling his eyes he muttered, "Theodore, is that all you think about?"

Shrugging, he laughed. "On a vaguely serious note, what do you think of the new Mrs. Norrington?"

Nathaniel shuddered a little. From what he'd seen, Mrs. Charlotte Norrington would be an interesting woman indeed. She was short, with long blond hair and large blue eyes, and her wedding dress seemed to positively engulf her small frame. She had referred to Gillette as a militia man and was apparently appalled by the lack of dancing in the city.

"She's too thin." He said finally.

Groves looked at him incredulously. "Excuse me?"

Gillette cleared his throat, "Well, she's too thin. Just- just look at her. Why she could never feed a man properly! How are you to be fed properly if the person in charge of the meal looks like they're starving?"

"Unbelievable." Groves muttered. "And you say that I'm the vain one?"

He walked stiffly around the ballroom, knowing full well what the whispers were for. James hated it, the pointed glances, the hushed comments that just happened to stop right when he arrived. Suppressing a sigh, he locked in his shoulders and composed his face as best he could.

Elizabeth inwardly frowned and turned away. She remembered a time not too long ago when his face broke into a wide smile, and how his eyes crinkled at their corners when he did so. But that was before, and now she couldn't see any action that would heal the blow she dealt him. She sighed heavily and looked around the room, wishing to be anywhere but there.

"- well, what do you think Mr. Turner thinks of all this? I mean _really_, would any man want his wife after that?"

"Caesar did say after all, that even his wife must be above suspicion." Lieutenant Groves whispered coyly. Elizabeth looked up sharply in his direction and flashed a grateful smile. He bowed and quickly walked away.

"Lieutenant Groves!"


	3. Chapter 3

His back tensed automatically, and she could tell that he had heard. The whispers. That's what it was. The whispers were what got James Norrington. He had survived campaigns, bravely fighting men in hand to hand combat. But what he could not take was the endless, totally useless chatter. The politicking of everyone, not just the Navy. How one person's minor slip would be made a public spectacle before the dinner hour.

Elizabeth sympathized with him and walked in his general direction hoping to catch a moment with him. She stopped short however, at the sight of Mrs. Norrington. Charlotte Norrington stood at her new husband's side, with a look of practiced irritation and boredom at her own wedding. Elizabeth was about to turn in the other direction when Charlotte caught her gaze. There was no escape now, she had to greet them. Sighing inwardly Elizabeth smiled and approached them.

Charlotte Norrington was not at all anything like what people expected for the wife of the Commodore. She was rather cold, and always composed her face into a mask of indifference. Mrs. Norrington could have been a beauty, Elizabeth owned, if she tried but the fact was that she did not. It wasn't anything to do with her person necessarily, but her manner. Charlotte was probably the best dressed lady in all of Port Royale, usurping Elizabeth's former position but she did not attempt to anything civil with any member of Port Royale.

On her first days in Port Royale, the soon to be Mrs. Norrington complained of the city. She found the women of society dull and unsuitable to talk to, and the men apparently were worse. At the dinners she attended she could barely conceal the repugnance from her face, as she sat there and endured the presumably endless chatter.

Furthermore, at one of her father's dinners one evening, Charlotte was overheard saying that Elizabeth Turner was nothing more than a literate harlot. Elizabeth bristled at the comment, but apparently no one else found that particularly insulting. Save, of course for her father, most of Port Royale didn't even blink at the statement. Will, to her great irritation, found the statement even a little amusing.

"Just think of it," he had said grinning, "what a _fine_ wife she shall make for him."

Elizabeth, however, was less than amused. Snapping back to reality, Elizabeth put forth her widest smile as she greeted them.

"Commodore, Mrs. Norrington what a beautiful day to get married!"

Charlotte Norrington peered down at her and arched an eyebrow. "Insufferably hot, really."

James nearly lost his composure, but was able to suppress his shudder with the most extreme difficulty. He muttered his greeting and left hurriedly.

Charlotte's icy glare quickly swept from Elizabeth, to the figure of her husband's retreating back, to Elizabeth again. Her nostrils flared and her lips contorted into a thin white line.

"Mrs. Turner, could you please tell me why is it that every time you are in the same room as my husband, that he leaves?"

Elizabeth's eyes flared dangerously, and she relished in looking Mrs. Norrington squarely in the eyes as she frostily said, "Perhaps he's forgotten how to conduct himself in the company of _fine_ women."

James sat in his seat staring blankly at the dispatch before him. He already knew that he was to be court-martialed, but to see it in official hand was another thing entirely. St. Kitts. He hadn't been there in what seemed like ages. But of course, the Admiralty Court was there and it would be there that he would cast his die. Silently he had wondered how long he would be allowed to continue there, and this letter was oddly comforting. Perhaps he could finally escape the harsh words and rumors that shadowed him. It was too draining he decided and looked wistfully out the window.

The days since he had returned were long, insufferable really. James had dutifully and morosely wrote out each letter of condolence to every man's family. It was especially painful as he had grown to know his crew well, which was something of a rarity in the Navy. James never adhered to the principles that the commander should remain aloof, and near god like to his men. But, he supposed, perhaps that wasn't such a bad preposition after all.

He had wanted to join the Navy when he was a young boy, but any real attachment had long since died. It died under the mountains of paperwork that James was expected to complete, and the utterly dismal display of politicking that he was both subjected to and part of. People presumed to be friends would actually turn ruthless in daylight, if it helped their careers. He did enjoy the actual naval affairs, the battles and the sea, but he so very rarely was able to enjoy such things that they were more of a thing of the past.

The weather had also invariably perceived his sour mood. Days stretched out endlessly, with the hot Caribbean sun looming down viscously upon his subjects even more. The wind had died as well, so that there was an unnatural calm about the port. Most people seemed to walk about on edge as if uncertain as to what to do.

The recovery of Port Royale was not going as quickly as he would have intended it. The batteries in the Fort itself would take several more weeks at best to fully finish, and the ships in the harbor were in sore need of assistance. The city itself was intact at the very least. But the Governor's Mansion was destroyed, put to fire. James had offered his own home to the Governor, but he had declined. In the weeks since the pirate attack, James and the Governor had experienced a sort of rift. He supposed that it was at least in part perpetuated by his new wife. Charlotte made in painstakingly obvious that she did not like Elizabeth, and some of the more serious comments had made their way back to Weatherby.

James had done the best he could with what little resources he had. The unfortunate fact was that the battery was not up for the task. Early Englishmen had built the fort quickly, fearing a reconnaissance from the Spanish. While it overlooked the bay, the massive guns of Fort Charles had a difficult time training their sights into the actual harbor. Additionally, in terms of siege warfare, it was difficult to dominate for there was a shallow hill to one side of the bay that the Admiralty had believed was of no importance. But apparently the pirates had, and from that they had flank attacked the city. He frowned unconsciously at the memory.

There was a nagging at the back of his head that he couldn't quite explain. It was quite a feat, he would have to own, that one lone ship could sack a large port with several ships of the line in harbor. More than quite a feat, it shouldn't have happened. The pirates had gained sea superiority early on, and then some proceeded to land. A very small number had noisily sloshed onto the bay, but a larger group landed at the opposite hill, with additional cannon. There, they were able to train the cannon to cover their comrade's approach and some went on to flank attack the city.

It was rather ironic, really, for when James was a Captain, he had appealed to the Commodore to requisition an outpost, or something for that hill.

No matter for now James would now have to answer charges for it. The undeniable fact was that he had in fact lost a ship of his majesty's. He would have to answer to that certainly and James wasn't at all certain if it would be favorable.


	4. Chapter 4

He looked at his dinner and let out a sigh. It was the first night at home alone for Charlotte and James, and James wished for anything to draw him away from the dinner table.

Charlotte sat across the table from him, glowering at him and rather fervently cutting her lamb. This had been the seventh glare by his account. It had to stop. He could not imagine spending the next 40 years of his life sitting across from that glaring tart.

"If I might be so bold to enquire, why do you hate me so? I haven't been cruel, or mistreated you." He put mildly.

Charlotte paused for a moment. "What are you talking about?"

James felt his patience wearing thin. His jaw flexed in irritation and he motioned for more wine. "Charlotte, you criticize my friends, Port Royale, myself. I-I'm sorry if I am so unbearable."

Her cadence faltered just slightly at the last sentence. "I don't hate you, you know, but I do think you're a hypocrite."

He furrowed his brow. "How so?"

"You call Port Royale your people. You say that the workers, the Will Turners are you charges as well, and they believe it too. They respect and admire you, but what have you really done for them? You speak so loftily about men and their inherent good nature and capabilities, but you have done nothing to prove that you believe so."

James couldn't believe it. How dare this woman preach to him what she herself did not practice? "And what of yourself, Charlotte? You obviously are acquainted with the essayists but you came here and insulted everyone, acting as if this city was a fleck of mud on your shoe. Yes, I am sure that Port Royale cannot compete with your glittering salons of London, but you haven't even tried. What does that say of your character?"

Charlotte narrowed her eyes until they were icy slits and her nose flared. "At least I have the courage, the capacity to say what I think. If I were to put your uniform on Governor Swann, I fear I wouldn't be able to discern a difference."

His irritation was growing and his words became freer. "Courage or fear? Yes, you say what you think, but to what end? Does it gain you anything? Do you have any friends here? Or are you too busy standing on your pedestal, finding faults with everyone?"

She stood rapidly, nearly toppling the chair. "I don't need a pedestal to see your faults. They're as plain as day."

James walked out into the brisk night air, replaying their dinner conversation in his mind. It was surprising how cool it could actually get when the sun dipped low below the horizon. James wearily started back to his home, and unwound his cravat. Chuckling to himself, James tore off his powdered wig. He gently pinched the bridge of his nose and looked up to the night sky. On impulse he started walking to the bay. There was a grassy knoll overlooking the ocean that he often came to when he managed to be alone. The stars shone brightly that night and he sighed and sank deep down into the grass. Sloughing off his great coat he felt marginally better, as if he might finally be able to breathe. Closing his eyes he took in a deep breath of air, a rare mixture of the ocean and the heady fragrance of the various native flowers.

She was right, he had grudgingly concluded. He was a hypocrite in many ways. James remembered when he was younger and spoke freely. But that was many years ago, and that had waned as he advanced higher in the ranks.

_You speak so loftily about men and their inherent good nature and capabilities, but you have done nothing to prove that you believe so._

James let out a hoarse laugh to no one in particular. What a mess he'd gotten himself into. On the one hand, he was too restrained, but on the other not enough.

_Watch yourself, Norrington. You're already under investigation for the Interceptor._

He was done, plain and simple. Try as he might, James knew that the game was up. He had played his cards well, but it was all to no use. There was only so far that he could go, all things considered and he had placed a risky gamble. And now there was nothing to show for it. He had lost the Interceptor and Jack Sparrow.

Oh yes, right, _Captain_ Jack Sparrow. He admonished himself.

A sense of grief flooded him at once. The Navy, the one constant thing in his life, something he had striven in and excelled was now gone. He tried to be optimistic, but there was no optimism left. James was a young man, far too young in some people's minds to be in such a command, and he supposed that they were right. This had been his moment to prove himself but instead he affirmed everyone's worst fears and assumptions.

_You do too much too quickly. Tact my dear boy, will win the day._

He heard the snickers and the comments behind his back and each one made him flinch. How ironic it was that only a short time ago, people had praised his every move, but now they ridiculed every step he took. Yes, once you lost the respect of your charges, it was all done. He knew it, and moreover they knew it. He was truly done.

Charlotte sunk deep into her vanity chair as Sarah her maid brushed out her long hair. Dinner had been horrid and there was a sadness that Charlotte couldn't explain. It was like a pit had formed in her stomach, one that she didn't know how to fill.

"You were awfully harsh to him today, Ma'am, if I might say."

Charlotte reached around and seized the hand with the brush. "I beg your pardon?"

Sarah looked down at her charge with fear for the first time. Gulping she continued. "We didn't raise you like this, Ma'am. He's really not so bad. His staff rather adores him."

Charlotte shrugged indifferently.

"You should give up this game, Ma'am."

She shifted uncomfortably and moved to dismiss Sarah, but Sarah continued.

"You are married now, and nothing you do, no matter how awful you are will matter. He won't divorce you so you must try to make it work."

Charlotte took in a sharp breath. "That is all for the evening Sarah."

James walked into the study and bowed. Charlotte's words had stung him far more than he had realized. He stayed up last night, thinking about what she said, and what he could do to change it. It had been a fervent night of writing, but he felt better that morning.

A faint whisp of breeze coursed through the room and he gently set rolls of parchment down on the mahogany desk. The Governor looked up in annoyance at him and raised his eyebrow.

"What's this?" he asked shortly.

James felt his back stiffen and straighten at the tone of Swann's voice, but he resolved that he was already there, so he might as well continue with it.

Clearing his throat he began, "It's a proposition, sir for a proper school. We have none here in the Caribbean and since we have to rebuild the town, could we not make some improvements? We must send our own to schools in the American Colonies or to England, but once they arrive there they loathe coming back. There's no guaranteeing that one of them will return to these quarters. If we were to start a college, a real school perhaps it would help improve things here. Also, I spoke to some people in the surrounding areas and they suggested some things. Here-"

James unfurled another city map, already marked up with new ideas. "- when summer comes, the city festers and harbors bad water. Sickness is common here, and if we were to space things out a bit, perhaps it would lessen the danger to the city. I spoke to Doctor Stevens and he agrees that that would help. Also, the sewage system is deplorable and I have a report here-"

Weatherby smiled slightly and shook his head. "Commodore, you must be a busy man but might I offer some advice? To be honest, you will not find the support you need for these projects now. Wait until after you get back from St. Kitts. Then we shall talk."

"B-but sir." James stuttered.

Weatherby held up a hand, "James, as fond of you as I am, I am not a miracle worker. You must reign yourself in. Temperance, patience."

James let out an impatient sigh. "Yes sir, I know. I have been practicing those qualities for as long as I've been stationed here, but where has it gotten me? A wife of my choice? A permanent position within the Navy?"

Weatherby stood there in shock. It was as if he had traveled back almost a decade, and there stood the rash, impetuous Lieutenant Norrington. James had been an upstart, and had bristled sometimes under authority. His parents were rich however, and were able to cover some of his more excessive blunders but the fact had remained that James Norrington had much unused potential.

Under Swann's tutelage, James had curbed his irritation, and had learned the art, the game of politics. He had watched James stalk the ballroom floor to curry favor from the most ruthless of matrons and pacified the most boorish of plantation owners. Things happened not because of swift and decisive moves, but of subtle plays and good intelligence. Swann knew the value of a few well placed spies, and never failed to use the additional knowledge to his advantage. He also had to own however, that James never really warmed to the idea. He was still that impatient boy, just far enough removed so that no one would notice.

He could see that he was getting no where with Norrington. Swann rose to show James the door, and the Commodore inwardly sighed. They could all smell it, the eminent demise that was to follow, and they were distancing themselves already. It didn't matter how woefully untrained their doctors were, nor that the fevers that frequented the islands sapped the economy as well as the population. He was indeed, a marked man.

Weatherby sighed as he watched Norrington's retreating back. That man simply did not sleep, Weatherby decided. Swann lowered himself slowly into his chair again. The gout was returning again and he subconsciously looked down at his legs ruefully. Soon they would become painful again.

The Governor looked to the vacated door with sadness. He could not shake the feeling that perhaps that would be the last time he would see James again.

He idly picked up the parchment report the Commodore had referred to before he left.

_It is my opinion Sir, that the attack of the Black Pearl on Port Royale could not have been possible without additional knowledge and guidance. The aforementioned could only logically come from a man who's studied military warfare…_


	5. Chapter 5

She hummed softly to herself as she walked the streets of Port Royale. Elizabeth idly played with a trailing coil of hair as she looked into shop windows. She gasped at the sight of a bolt of plumb colored silk and resisted the urge to press her nose against the glass.

It was simply exquisite and Elizabeth immediately remembered the dress Barbossa had on the Black Pearl. The silk would shimmer in candle light and complement her hair nicely. A vision of her dress danced in her mind and Elizabeth smiled sadly. She looked down at her plain blue muslin dress and laughed. It was ridiculous to even think of such luxuries at the moment, and Elizabeth found that even stolen glances such as the previous only heightened her sadness.

Elizabeth had to grudgingly admit that she hadn't ever really understood what Will's life was like. As the daughter of the Governor, she had been well sheltered. She didn't know how hard Will worked to make the threadbare living he did, nor how long it took to prepare their modest meals. She was shocked to see the effects of consumption and the fever on people who couldn't afford a doctor. In fact the only time she had even heard of the plight of the lower classes was from James.

_James._ She smiled at the thought of him. He was to leave in a week and Elizabeth found herself feeling increasingly forlorn, almost sad.

"Good morning."

Elizabeth started, as she realized that she still had that stupid smile plastered on her face while walking through the door of the forge. Guiltily she looked up to see Will's expectant smile. Flashing a hesitant and altogether feeble smile she walked in.

She set Will's breakfast next to him and sat herself on the steps. Elizabeth was trying to learn to sew properly, not merely embroidering pretty handkerchiefs and screens. Will sat on the edge of the table, chewing on his cold bacon and biscuits, looking at her exasperated.

"So what order are you working on now?" She asked, trying to muster interest.

Will snorted. "Orders, Elizabeth? What orders? I only have one, from that pompous Commodore." Will shrugged and chuckled. "At least he's got deep pockets."

Elizabeth looked up sharply. "It'll pick up, you're a good blacksmith. It just takes a little time…darling."

Will caught her stutter and fixed her with a pointed glare. "It's not me, Elizabeth it's you. Yes, I'm talking about you and your precious Commodore. Don't give me that look, I'm not an idiot you know. I've heard the rumors about you and him. I see the way you stand up straighter when he's in the room, or that faint blush that creeps into your cheek when his name is mentioned. Other people notice too, and they're afraid to associate with you on any level and go elsewhere for their swords. My swords are some of the finest in the area and no one will come here because of you, and the only man to patronize me is none other than Commodore Norrington."

He took her in his arms, and looked at her with his large brown eyes. The very eyes she had fallen in love with so long ago. They probed her own eyes now, searching for some truth or indication. "Tell me- no wait, don't. I don't know if I could live with the answer. Just, just remember Elizabeth, that time we spent on the Black Pearl. I still feel the same way, do you?"

For once in her life, Elizabeth had nothing forthcoming to say. She stood there shocked, wide eyed and mouth gaping for what seemed like an eternity. Will lowered his eyes slowly and slammed the door on his way out.

Lieutenant Gillette irritatedly scratched his scalp, cursing yet again the wisdom of the British Navy. They were stationed in Jamaica, one of the hottest outposts in the Empire, and what were they required to wear? None other than a thinner variant of wool. Additionally, as an officer, he was required to keep decorum at all time, unlike the sailors. Some of which, he ruefully discovered, had stripped down to bare minimum in the growing heat.

His mood was already soured by the weather, and now he walked with dread to another briefing with the senior chain of command at Fort Charles. Luckily Groves would be there as well, to curb some of the boredom.

James had anticipated everyone's less than enthusiastic mood and ordered plenty of drinks for the men. He had large maps strategically scattered throughout the room and Gillette could see that this would be a long meeting.

It was a close knit group that afternoon, and significantly smaller after the pirate attack. The town graveyard had doubled at least in the last month. As the few remaining men filed in, Groves walked up and flashed him a look of expectant boredom. Gillette smiled wryly and they all saluted as James walked in.

"Gentlemen, good afternoon. I hope to keep this brief so that we might all get away from this insufferable heat."

A few of the men looked remarkably improved by these comments.

"I've spoken to Captain Hannum and he's been briefed on everything. I leave in several days, and some of you with me to St. Kitts. Regardless of what happens, I just wanted to thank you all now for the honor and the priveledge of serving with you all."

Every man shifted uncomfortably in the heat. It was the one subject that they dared not tread, as if the court martial was only real if they spoke of it aloud. And rather predictably, James had brought it up at the start. Sometimes he could surprise Gillette with the extraordinary ease with which he could talk of the most painful of subjects.

"But that is not why I have brought you all here today. After careful review of the battle, I do not think Barbossa and the pirates could have executed this attack alone. This requires some knowledge of military affairs. I am of the opinion that it would be very easy for a newer member here, say a Mid, to shift loyalties especially if money were to be offered. Therefore, as a last request of sorts, I would like each of you to look over crew rosters and see if any names fit the description. But let us consult the maps, and let me show you why Barbossa would have needed help…"

Elizabeth walked up the familiar steps to the Governor's mansion with a slight tinge of panic. She had never received a written summons from her father before and it worried her. True, she hadn't spoken to her father much since their spontaneous wedding, but maybe this was a sign that the initial shock was wearing off.

They had married soon after that day on the battlements. Will and Elizabeth met with Captain Jack Sparrow in the less reputable end of Port Royale and said their vows in front of their pirate friends. Of course, it was not the most secretive of locations especially after rum had been distributed but it just seemed fitting for Will and Elizabeth. Will wore his giant plumed hat and cape and Elizabeth another London-made monstrosity. When her father heard, which incidentally was the next day, he insisted on a "proper" wedding. Only too eager to comply, they restated their intentions on the battlements of Fort Charles.

_It seems so long ago!_ Elizabeth reflected as she was ushered in.

Her father was void of his normal joviality and he bade her to sit with an unemotional detachment, as if she was just another member of Port Royale. He then rounded the mahogany desk and gently sat.

"Elizabeth," he started, clearing his throat, "I've asked you here today to offer you a proposition. You are, as you are well aware, the daughter of a Governor and that demands a certain amount of respect."

_Oh dear Lord, this cannot end prettily._ A sinking feeling started in her stomach and descended.

"You're, ah, husband's forge is failing. No one wants to patronize him and that brings me to my point. The Governor's daughter cannot be living in a parlorless hovel, so I've acquired a house for you and your husband. You will have a generous allowance to buy acceptable clothing and additionally decorate the place. Naturally it is not as large as this, but it is respectable."

Guilt congealed in her stomach like a lead brick and she lowered her head, ashamed to have neglected to see the disgrace her proud father felt.

"Father, I-"

"Ah," Weatherby stopped her, "there IS one condition. You must stop any and all communication and interaction with James Norrington."

She inhaled sharply and looked up at her father. He sat there grimly but with such a fixed look of determination, one that she had never seen before.

"People are talking about you, Elizabeth, and your relationship with the Commodore. Now, you know my views already on this subject, but what is done is done. We must make do with what we have, and you have Will Turner."

"Father, I can't." Elizabeth started, rising to further illustrate her point.

Weatherby also rose, albeit much slower and with a wince. "No Elizabeth, it's already been done. The house is fully staffed, and furnished. A carriage is waiting outside to convey you to your new home- and your husband."


	6. Chapter 6

Author's Note: Okay, so I realized after looking at this, that when the chapters posted, the format changed and so it reads awkwardly. There are supposed to be breaks where we jump from one character to another but that is supposed to be clearly delineated. Sorry for the confusion. Reviews would be greatly appreciated!

Elizabeth sat at the end of the long dining table in a beautiful plum colored dress. Her hair was gathered up prettily in a mass of ringlets nestled with ropes of pearls. Will sat at the other end of the table, fidgeting with his cravat and looking questioningly at her dress.

It was a rather large crowd there that night. Elizabeth had thrown a party to commemorate their new home, and it turned out rather well. Most of the aristocracy, if you could call them that, turned out to appreciate the home and the Commodore.

Elizabeth didn't know who suggested it, or even who had coordinated it but as it turned out her party transformed into a night of adulation of the departing Commodore. James would leave that morning for St. Kitts to face his court martial. She knew that her father had forbidden contact with that man, but he had to agree that it would be out of step with decorum to refuse. Secretly she had to admit that she was glad.

Elizabeth was almost positive that the rather prudish and appalled matrons of Port Royale had orchestrated this in an attempt to further shame her father and Will, but she would turn the dinner into an opportunity. Oh, how she hated the stares, the fixed glances, the hushed remarks. It was enough to drive a person mad. And it wasn't as if she didn't have enough to deal with. Since her father's maneuvering, Will had become even more detached, irritated, and a tinge cold. He stood there now, so stiff, so disposed to jump at the slightest inclination.

Someone started playing some waltzes and Elizabeth would have danced with him, but for the fact that he didn't know how. Nor did he know proper dinner etiquette or conversation. He wasn't acquainted with Voltaire, Rousseau or Locke. Will didn't know the subtle art of conversation, the playful banter. Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt and joined him at his side.

His face, which was a composed mask, split into a bashful smile as she laced her hand within his offered elbow. Will looked at his wife with such an open, questioning look that Elizabeth felt a blush creep up.

"Elizabeth," he asked quietly, hesitantly, "is this a sign?"

She smiled at him, trying to mask her confusion to a minimum.

"That dress, that's the dress from Barbossa, the one you wore on the Black Pearl."

Elizabeth's eyes widened at the realization of what the dress must mean to Will. She lowered her head and looked for some sort of escape.

_Come now, Elizabeth, this is what you wanted after all. You have your dashing, caring, moral pirate/ rogue and all the "adventure" that comes with it. This is what you've always wanted, what you've immortalized since childhood. This is the path you chose. _

Elizabeth smiled sweetly and caressed Will's hand.

_Indeed this is where my heart, truly, lies._

The breeze was brisk and refreshing and Charlotte quickly threw open the shutters. She had suffered through another dinner that evening, thanks to that indomitable Mrs. Turner. Charlotte was rather proud of herself, as she had gone the entire evening without insulting a guest. Of course, it helped that Lieutenant Gillette talked with her frequently on the activities of the "cattle" as he called them. He was particularly horrified when one of the more desperate women started winking at him.

Chuckling to herself, she sat herself on the ledge of her window completely at ease. It was a beautiful night, a million little diamonds strewn upon a dark blue sky. The wind was beginning to blow in earnest, signaling an approaching storm.

Charlotte was beginning to see why James loved it so much there. When she had first come to the island, she was fully prepared to hate everyone and everything. But aside from the upper class there, the general attitude was the carefree, unrestrained type that Charlotte was looking for.

_As for James,_ she mused, _he certainly isn't what I expected._

She had expected some stiff, pompous sort of man, one that she was already predisposed to hate. But try as she might, it was a difficult task she had assigned herself to. The warm night air seemed to accentuate the fragrance of the local flowers outside her window, and the sound of the nearby crashing waves were wholly intoxicating and Charlotte soon found her eyelids growing heavy with sleep.

It was almost dawn when she heard him slowly shuffle to his door. Curious, Charlotte had cracked her door open to see and there he stood. His face was creased with worry as he studied a chart, the dark circles under light green eyes and it made him look far older than his 32 years. It was off set even more by his dark brown hair. He had been careless the past few weeks, and it had grown rather long. Once bereft of wig, James took on a new personality as Charlotte was soon discovering. He was more vocal, less restrained, even a bit boyish.

He startled, sensing rather than seeing her there and flashed a sheepish grin. "Just, ah, finishing some paper work."

She cleared her throat, "Might I ask what?"

Something in his expression changed, lightened just a little. His face split into a wide smile. "It's just some old crew rosters."

"Oh." She said quietly. Charlotte didn't know what she was expecting. Perhaps some monumental confession, some reason more tantalizing than crew rosters to keep him awake at such a late hour. But the moment was gone as quickly as it had appeared. He bid her good night and quietly clicked the door shut after him. She stood there a moment, staring at that great door.

He stood with his back to the door, and closed his eyes for just a moment. James had no idea what had just happened. He was so surprised at seeing her there that he did not think to question her about why she was up at that late hour.

_Perhaps the oncoming storm woke her. I should go to her, make sure that she's alright. _

James nodded at this thought and set his parchment down. He gathered his robe and quietly opened his door. Hesitantly he looked out in the open hall, as if he were hiding from something. James swiftly walked to her door, raised his fist to knock and paused.

_Oh bollocks. _

He took in a deep breath and raised his fist again, but something stopped him from knocking. James sighed heavily, and rested his head against the door. He listened for any sound in the room, any hint to coax him forward, but found none.

Wearily he trod back to his bed and was surprised and dismayed to see a few beams of sunlight already making their way through the clouds. It would be light soon, and with the light would come his departure for St. Kitts.


	7. Chapter 7

James irritatedly adjusted his cravat and happily walked to the grand front doors of the Governor's mansion. He hadn't managed any sleep the previous night, looking for any sign, any name of someone who would potentially aide an attack but found none. James had just bid the Governor farewell as a rather per functionary gesture before his departure.

He happily threw open the great doors to take in some of the cooler morning air when he was stopped by the figure of Mrs. Turner on the doorsteps.

She stood there willing herself to speak, but no words came. This might be the last time in quite a while that they would see each other and Elizabeth felt compelled to say what she was thinking. She ached to say she was sorry, that she had behaved badly, foolishly. They had known each other for so long, it was so familiar, so comforting that when James had hinted at growing affections she had repulsed him. She was afraid, afraid of what that would mean after all he was so much older than herself. But mostly she was afraid that perhaps she was starting to feel the same way. So she made clear her own indifference to his affections, and thought a growing attraction was developing with Will. It was fear that drove her to leave him on the battlements, fear of what was in front of her.

It wasn't supposed to happen that way. She had always pictured someone closer to her age, less restrained, carefree. He would confess his undying love for her and they would embark on adventures around the world. Not a restrained, older authority figure. Never in her wildest imagination did Elizabeth think a man such as James Norrington could occupy that position. But the way her heart lifted at the sound of his voice told a different story.

Those words were never uttered however, dead upon her lips, under the politely detached look and tone addressed to her by James.

"I wish you a safe journey, and a swift return Commodore."

---

Charlotte stood by the dock, looking at the flatboat that would take James to the_Dauntless_ and to his fate. She knew that she should feel something, something more substantive than what her sleep addled mind could offer, but Charlotte found herself in foreign territory.

The morning air was already humid and the skies above were turning a sickly grayish green. Birds and other animals were skittish and remained silent and the people of Port Royale were no better. That is, the remainder of the populace who weren't nursing enormous headaches from the night before.

Mrs. Turner's quiet dinner had turned out to be a roaring success. What had started off as a small number of acquaintances blossomed into practically every member of the affluent in Port Royale. It was such as success in large part because everyone was continually enraptured with the guilt of Mrs. Turner and Commodore Norrington. It was intoxicating to them, the vast play that unfolded in front of them, both the audience and the instigators. The talk that morning only worked to heighten her irritation at James. She tried, truly she did, but this was ridiculous.

James walked up to her stiffly, wearily, his shoulders dipping low despite his obvious attempts. He took her by the elbow gently walking to a more secluded area of the dock, his back to everyone.

He shuffled and drew a package from his jacket. Hesitantly he handed it to her, and fixed her with a sorrowful smile. She unwrapped it eagerly, wondering what could be so important, so intimate that he would grace her with his full attention. Shakespeare's Tragedies. How poetic.

James could see her less than thrilled reception of the book. "I've always derived pleasure out of reading these plays. I hope that if you ever find yourself alone, that you will derive some entertainment or at least some significance out of this."

Entertainment indeed. Exasperated, she felt tears starting to form.She thought that perhaps after last night they might actually become something, something more than a marriage of convenience. But all he could muster was a book.

_Can you not tell me something, anything? That's all the world is to you, isn't it? It's all a play to you. Do you have any genuine feeling or emotion?_

He grasped her hand, politely kissing it and got into the flatboat.

James walked idly by, for there was nothing he could do. No sword, no duty on ship. It was odd, watching Port Royale slip away from view for the first time with nothing to do, no responsibility to it.

There would be a storm in a few hours and he wandered around idly in the meantime. He was bored, and it irritated him extremely that he couldn't help the men. James walked below decks just as they finished their morning gun practice. The air was punctured by the tang of gunpowder and the sweat off the men. It was infernally hot down there and he cursed his uniform.

One of the gun crew men looked at him sympathetically as he bandaged up his hand. James took interest in him and approached him.

"What happened to your hand?"

Up close, James could tell that this was one of the new men, he was just a boy, wide eyed and generally unfamiliar with the ways of the big guns. After the engagement of the Black Pearl, there were many a gun crew lost and most of their crews were fresh men. This led to some interesting gun crews, and a lot more serious accidents.

The boy stammered, "It was my fault, sir. I was careless, and didn't take heed during the recoil of the gun."

James nodded. The most dangerous area of the cannon was actually behind it, and he remembered many occasions when careless gunners were taught a painful lesson.

"Are you having trouble with this gun?"

The boy paused, as if unsure what answer would be acceptable, but he was encouraged by the look in James's eye, and he nodded.

James smiled broadly and took off his wig.

---

Two hours later, James was in a heavy sweat as he and the gun crew worked to figure out cannon number 8. He had taken off his wig and coat and waistcoat and his shirt hung loose on his thin frame. Gunpowder was smeared all over his face and hands as he taught the men how to train the guns correctly.

They were still deplorable, to be truthful but far more accurate than before. He nodded with satisfaction, and the exhausted men smiled in return. James helped them secure the gun carriage, and was about to leave when they heard cannon fire.

Men poured into their stations, looking through the gun ports for the offending ship or ships. A hush fell upon the men and collectively it seemed, they startled.

There was no ship in sight, neither on the port nor starboard bow.


	8. Chapter 8

A gentle rain began to fall, unfortunately unable to quell the heat of the day. The soft patter of rain resonated against the hull of a still vessel not too far from Port Royale. She was large, with guns still run out, ready for battle. A lone flag lazily treaded water, battered and barely there. The Union Jack.

There had apparently been a battle, although by all outward appearances, the British had clearly lost. His Britannic Majesty would not be pleased but that would, of course, come about later. At one time there had been masts, but someone had taken down all of them so the ship was at the mercy of the current. Although it had been mere hours since the conflict, the seagulls and aquatic life had already found the ship, sensing what was already there.

Tiny rivulets of rain ran the course of the deck and mingled with drying blood. It turned into a transparent red wash that spread about deck. This hadn't been just a mere battle, it was a slaughterhouse. Men lay in heaps where they fell, slack jawed and wide eyed. Plump droplets of rain caressed their cheeks and soaked their uniforms.

The air hung thick, and a hideous vapor rose. Nature had wasted no time in ravaging these men in the heat. Some had even begun to swell. But these were just a fraction of the men aboard the vessel. The majority of them were confined in the brig where there had been so little room that a man was forced to stand stock still and even a turn of the shoulder was precarious. The enemy had formed a line in front of their captives and unleashed an unholy blister of bullets, and then later a flurry of bayonets. Men still remained stock still in their positions, not even afforded a rest in death.

Toward the stern of the ship lay a body apart from everyone else. He had collapsed in a great heap, after an apparently vicious fight. His face in particular had been brutalized, and in conjunction with the pressing heat became unrecognizable. Wounds encompassed his entire body, and his blood had stained his crisp, cream colored waistcoat, and tarnished the copious amounts of gold brocade. His wig and feathered tricorn had fallen and revealed a mass of dark, wet tendrils.

---

Dark clouds began to gather as soon as James left. A faint breeze began to ripple through the city, visibly affecting the people. Clouds that began as a faint pewter color soon amassed in large quantities, and turned into an angry shade of grayish green. The rain was just starting and not a single creature dared to make noise. Charlotte shivered as she looked out the window.

She was sick of this, all the unconscious stings and rumors. It had to stop. Now.

---

Elizabeth Turner somewhat impatiently flung the door open, only to find an annoyed Mrs. Norrington. Charlotte was hardly recognizable. Her hair had fallen out of its normally elaborate arrangement and hung in damp clumps. But her eyes shone with an intensity that Elizabeth had rarely seen.

Without waiting for an invitation, Charlotte stormed in. "Mrs. Turner, certainly you have heard some of the gossip lately. I cannot stand it any longer. Unfortunately I cannot seem to get a straight answer from anybody so I have come to you for the truth." At this she sighed heavily, but continued. "Did you have a _relationship_ with my husband?" Charlotte fixed her with an icy gaze and nearly spat out the last part of the sentence.

Elizabeth turned, shocked. She looked guiltily down to the floor and walked away. Unfortunately Charlotte had anticipated this. She seized Elizabeth's arm with surprising force and whipped her around.

"Tell me. Tell me everything."

Elizabeth glowered and considered her options. She wasn't entirely sure why Mrs. Norrington cared. James had money, and her family had none. Now she had both, so why did it matter? Which was what Elizabeth promptly informed her.

A resounding crack was heard a moment later, which would be recounted scores of times by the staff by the end of the day.

"You trussed up brat!" Charlotte glared menacingly, "James is my husband. And I deserve to know about what happened to you two. The last few weeks were almost unbearable for James when you were there. I want to know why."

"And why do you want to know so badly, Mrs. Norrington? The marriage was one of convenience not love." She spat hotly.

Charlotte was positively livid, "Mrs. Turner, I am his wife and I deserve to know."

Elizabeth gave a dramatic sigh and looked off to her side. "Do you really want to know, Mrs. Norrington? Or would you rather keep the image of James you hold now?"

Charlotte furrowed her brow and her shoulders fell. "The truth, now, Mrs. Turner."

Elizabeth could see that there was no evading Charlotte Norrington now, and she began in a near whisper. "Very well, if you so desire. James and I had become rather close before the incident, and I went to him one afternoon to make reparations. Well, when I was there we fought, but then something happened. He was one of the few men I could ever really talk to, and Will… Will and I had fought earlier that day. I was just so… lost…"

_It had been a beautifully sunny day when Elizabeth entered the familiar study. She nervously fretted with her skirt and quietly shut the door behind her. He sat there hunched over some papers, oblivious to who had just walked in. She wore a new champagne colored dress, with a neckline perhaps a bit lower than was appropriate. Elizabeth pouted her lips slightly and coughed. _

_James looked up with a start and stood. "Elizabeth, what are you doing here?" _

_She seized the opportunity and started to whimper. "Oh James, Will and I had a terrible argument- he says it's over, and I didn't know what to do!"_

_He sighed and his face contorted into a look of impatience. "Mrs. Turner, certainly there are better people than myself with whom you can consult."_

_Elizabeth embraced him tightly and buried her head into his shoulder. "None that I trust so. Oh James, you have no idea! Will doesn't care at all for me. He doesn't talk to me, doesn't even…attend to me as a husband should."_

_At this last sentence, she looked up into his eyes and heaved her chest for greater effect. She reached up and drew his head near and kissed him. It was timid at first and gained intensity. Quickly her hands wrapped around him expertly and she drew him in eagerly, but he pulled away. _

_He was breathing heavily and he responded hotly, "Mrs. Turner it would do you well to leave now. I am to be married and I could not imagine ever traversing this path, let alone with you so please do not try my patience."_

_Elizabeth stood there in a state of shock. She had never been refused for anything. _

"… so as you can see, Mrs. Norrington despite my best efforts, there has been no infidelity."

Charlotte nodded curtly, unsure of whether to be angry at Mrs. Turner for attempting to steal her husband, or to be touched by the fact that James did not. She called for her carriage, leaving Elizabeth with her memories.


	9. Chapter 9

A collective wail arose from Port Royale not long after the long rain. The _Dauntless_ had been found not too far from the shipping lanes, dismasted and generally destroyed. A sloop had happened upon them first, and although they weren't able to take on the dead, they briefly searched for survivors.

They found one. He had been in the captain's quarters when attacked. His assailant took what looked like one solid swing to the head, knocking the man out and leaving him with a large gash. He lay there sprawled on the floor, bleeding rather profusely and completely oblivious to what happened above deck. The man never saw the surrender, never saw the massacre that ensued after.

A doctor, if he could even be called one, was rather fortunately traveling with them and turned out to be more of a boy than a man. He could only confidently conclude that the man had been hit in the head and was bleeding profusely. The man's wig had to be cut out in some places, as the blood had dried, and it revealed a shock of bright auburn hair.

---

_No. it couldn't be, it simply couldn't. _

"Are-are you absolutely sure?" she gulped.

Swann lowered his head. "They're quite sure, Mrs. Norrington, that it's him. If it's any comfort, it appears that he fought bravely…"

Charlotte looked up slowly, trying to reassure the Governor with a faint smile, but it faltered mid step amid a new wave of tears.

The body of James Norrington had been found at the stern of the ship. He had apparently dressed for the occasion, donning his full dress uniform. Amid the few personal effects found on his person was a newly made miniature of Charlotte.

Delicately, the Governor presented the very miniature to her now, nestled in a small wooden box with the other effects. She peered into the box hesitantly, reluctantly and retrieved the item. At the touch of the cold metal, Charlotte could stand it no longer. She rose quickly, bidding the Governor good bye and ran home.

"Ma'am? Hello? Won't you please come out?" Sarah stared vainly at the door. She had never seen her mistress so distressed before. Perhaps her previous talks had struck a chord.

Sarah frusteratedly juggled the tray she held and knocked again. "You must eat, Ma'am. It's been days, and you've barely eaten anything."

No response.

She sighed and reluctantly pulled a key from her apron pocket. Slowly she turned the knob of the door, as a sort of announcement but still she heard nothing.

Sarah almost dropped the tray when she walked in. The had been thrown open and moonlight filtered in and it cast a blue haze everywhere.

"Mistress?"

She turned at the sound of a faint whimper coming from the window. Sarah set the tray down and lithely walked over to the window, but did not see any sign of Charlotte. Perplexed, she poked her head into the various dark corners of the room but in vain.

It was like Charlotte was a child again. Whenever truly distressed, she would secret herself away, willing herself to calm, to composure again. Sarah had spent many an hour when she was younger looking for her unruly charge.

Sarah stopped abruptly. Of course. Why had she not thought of it sooner? Hastily Sarah walked up to the window and stuck her head out. Sure enough, Charlotte sat on the roof, half dangling half reclining on the roof. Her face had turned beet red from all the crying and there were heavy tear tracks on her cheeks.

"Mistress, you must come down."

There was no response however, no indication that Charlotte had heard. She sat there on the roof, tears silently running down her cheeks as she stared at the bay before her.

"_Courage or fear? Yes, you say what you think, but to what end? Does it gain you anything? Do you have any friends here?"_

She had been so horrible to him before, had mocked him openly and criticized everything he ever cared about. To think, when James fell she had been questioning Mrs. Turner about the rumored infidelity.

"… _I do think you're a hypocrite."_

Charlotte squeezed her eyes shut tightly, as if with enough pressure it would erase all the memories, all the things she had done to him.

She shuddered at the thought of herself and wrapped her arms around her knees protectively. The moon hung high in the night sky, and cast a silvery glow on the bay. Wiping her eyes with her hands, she knelt close to the roof but did not hear Sarah or anyone else.

Swinging herself expertly into the window, she gathered her robe and poked her head into the hall. Finding no one there, she tiptoed down into his study.

This had been the one room that Charlotte had never entered. It was mainly because there in his study she felt like a trespasser. That room was his epicenter, where he would retreat for hours on end without so much as a word spoken.

Unconsciously she drew her shawl about her even tighter and walked into the study.

_Typical of him, _she thought, _books, charts, maps strewn all over the place. _

Charlotte smiled faintly and began to roll up a map when a section of the wall caught her interest. It was a large map of Port Royale, so large that it had to be tacked to a side of the wall. She walked up to it breathlessly, gently skimming her fingertips across the surface.

It was exquisitely done in brilliant colors, and she knew that it must have cost a fortune to generate something on that scale. Plans, _his_ plans for the city. Slowly, tentatively, she reached out and traced the lines of the college he had talked about.

Large and stately, it would compel any man of any money to want to attend and indeed it would take considerable money for such an endeavor.

"_You speak so loftily about men and their inherent good nature and capabilities, but you _

_have done nothing to prove that you believe so."_

She flinched at the memory. Charlotte had been so angry at his words, his airs that she had lost her tongue. She remembered how James had looked, so stunned and infuriated at the same time. It had been such a great sport back then, seeing what it took to flatten his nose and make it flare so.

_Those memories are the ones that James took to his grave. He will forever remember me as that awful, hateful wife of his. _

Tears welled up in her eyes again, and spilled over in a torrent of anger and frustration. He had spent so many hours in that study working on the map, the city and finally he went to Governor Swann with his proposals. James never said to her how it went, but she had seen his face afterwards. He came back so flushed, still carrying his armful of maps, charts, and more plans. James did not talk about it again.

She reached out to the map one more time, as a farewell gesture of sorts, when her fingers stopped. Charlotte thought it was a trick of the light at first, so she drew the light in closer, and found numerous scrawlings hastily done. Eagerly she read and absorbed the information.

It called for a total overhaul of the city. He wanted to redraw the city and space things out, so that when the hot weather came the sickness didn't come with it. He did it for the people, the ones crammed in little hovels by the outskirts of the city. So that they would not have to worry about death by that mode, at least.

_This wasn't a part of the original plan. He made no mention of the people and the fever. James listened to me, and made provisions for them…_

Charlotte drew herself up straighter. She suddenly shivered; she had trespassed long enough. Quietly she walked out and shut the door, both surprised and saddened. It only amplified her own faults in judgment and she ducked her head in solemn acknowledgement.

As she walked back to the stairway, she paused under a great portrait done of James. It had been commissioned by Governor Swann to commemorate James's last promotion. The man in the portrait looked so confident, and a small smile played on his lips. She stood there looking straight at that mocking smile and those clear green eyes.

"You had so many secrets, so many things about you that you never shared and that I never pursued. I'll learn all your secrets, James. I'll find out who did this to you. That, I owe you."


	10. Chapter 10

Elizabeth woke to another hot morning in Port Royale. She lazily rolled over but found more emptiness. Will was already gone. She cursed herself, as she had missed him again before he left. Pulling herself up, she wrapped a sheet around herself and looked out the window. Elizabeth thought back to the conversation with Mrs. Norrington and a wave of guilt hit her.

She had not been entirely truthful with her, and it bothered Elizabeth.

_She had been upset that she had not been able to tell James how she felt when she ran into him that morning, and decided to wander about Port Royale. Before she knew it, she was by the Fort. Elizabeth just stood there, looking at that great stone structure when she heard some familiar footsteps. It was him. _

"_I waited for you." She said breathlessly. She needed to say her part._

_He looked at her cautiously, and ducked his head. She saw the shyness and the hurt of the public rejection from before, but she had to go on. "James, I treated you most horribly before, but- but I was rash. I didn't give things enough thought. Please, I only ask for a chance."_

_He snorted and looked to his side, "So you, Elizabeth, are trying to tell me that you didn't think enough about my proposal?" James shook his head and started to walk away. _

_Elizabeth rushed to his side, "Please, believe me James. I- I only ask for another chance."_

_James's stoic reserve cracked just slightly and he reached up to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. "Elizabeth, you need to let go of what could be and accept what is. We both made choices that we must now own to."_

"_But what if our first choices were not the right ones?" she asked, feeling much like a child._

"_That's the choice you made, Elizabeth. You're an adult, you've got to figure this out yourself."_

_Hot tears started falling, she couldn't help it. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. She was supposed to be with James, they were supposed to start over. _

_He gently lifted her chin so that she could look straight into those clear, deep green eyes. James spoke so softly that she barely registered the comment at first, "You don't love me any more than you did that day on the Dauntless." _

_Elizabeth drew in a breath sharply, his words stinging more than anything she could have imagined. Nodding numbly she made an attempt at a smile. James looked down, and gave her one final kiss on the cheek and walked away._


	11. Chapter 11

_"It was you all along, wasn't it? You are the one James is looking for, aren't you?"_

_"What are you talking about? Don't be ridiculous."_

_"No, I've figured it out. It had to be you."_

_Click. The ball slid easily down the barrel of the pistol._

_Groves smiled mockingly at Gillette. _

"_You won't fire at me. I'm your friend."_

_Gillette knew that he was right. _

"_You're right, I won't." The gun lowered. _

_That momentary pause of Gillette's was all that Groves needed. Seizing the opportunity, he swung with all his might, and the world erupted into a million little stars._

He stirred slowly and batted away an offending hand. Oh how his head hurt! He tried to open his eyes just a crack, but the light was too bright, and a wave of nausea hit. Gillette lay down and tried it again. Slowly, bit by bit he was able to finally open his eyes to a bustling array of the medical staff hovering over him.

---

Charlotte Norrington was quickly becoming acquainted with the Governor's mansion. She was festooned in the full mourning garb, and had soon discovered that it was not at all designed with the Caribbean climate in mind. Charlotte briefly considered sitting down in one of the chairs, but it was bad manners and so she endured the heat.

A wave of apprehension washed over her and she wondered why the Governor had summoned her there that day. Perhaps it was to discuss some of the funeral arrangements. James's body had to be hastily buried as soon as it had arrived in port, but the actual ceremony would take place in a few weeks so that there would be enough time to arrange everything.

The Governor quickly strode in with many apologies. "Mrs. Norrington, I am so sorry to have kept you waiting. Please," he said gesturing to a chair, "won't you sit?"

She gratefully accepted, and looked at Weatherby with an inquiring stare.

He shifted uncomfortably and began, "Mrs. Norrington, as you know we've finished the inquiry into the _Dauntless._ I fear I have been remiss in telling you something, however. It would appear that a few of the crew are missing… along with Lieutenant Groves."


	12. Chapter 12

Gillette sat there, trying to remember James's eye color. It troubled him enormously that he did not remember. _Perhaps that was the reason why I felt so discomfited. Nothing more than a mistake in eye color. _

James's eyes could change like the weather, inconstant and tempestuous. Normally they seemed somewhat shaded, withdrawn somehow from the viewer. "Politely detached" was the phrase he had heard once.

He shut his eyes, and tried to remember back to the last time he truly remembered James's eyes, the color.

_James's eyes flared, and he haughtily paced their surroundings. "What use are we here? There is an enormous battle being waged on the European continent, but where are we? We're out in the middle of only God knows what, where our largest battle has thus so far been with the mosquitoes!"_

_Gillette lazily nodded his head. He had heard this speech countless scores of times and quite frankly, it didn't improve upon repetition. _

_James playfully hefted a tomahawk and grunted as he threw it. Nathaniel watched it rip through the air with the precision that the Indians had taught James. It landed firmly in the bark of a dead tree with a dull thud. _

_"Norrington!" They whipped their heads back as they heard their commanding officer approach. _

_He was an older gentleman, beak nosed and carried himself with an all too important air. "An officer does not carry himself in that manner."_

_James stiffened at the comment, and lowered his eyes. But the twitching jaw muscles and the enlarged neck vein betrayed his emotions. "But sir," he started, with a tremble in his voice, "we cannot ignore the tactics these natives use here. They're sound tactics. They could help our men fight, lessen the number dead."_

_The man chuckled and puffed. "On a ship? And what would you suggest, Lieutenant? Stripping down to our waists and howling at the moon? That's what our officers are for, Norrington, to make sure that the men, the rabble don't degenerate into a mob."_

_Gillette watched with little interest in the exchange. It was all too common, really. James would fight for this or that, the Captain would tell him to be quiet or face court martial and then James would stalk off. _

_The captain pulled Norrington to his side by his elbow. He was livid and could tell that James was not listening. "You're a good man Lieutenant, but ever wonder why you haven't progressed farther? Your money can only go so far. You'll never get anywhere with this attitude. Give it up and you'll go places, or keep rattling your mouth and stay here forever. After all, they're only sailors, common men not worth our time. Hm?"_

_James stood there hesitantly, his face etched in frustration. His eyes furtively flashed like a bad storm, green and infused with raw power and anger. James's gaze kept on bouncing back and forth from the tomahawk to the Captain and he nodded finally. The storm lifted and a fog had rolled in. It blocked the light, the fire that had once been there and replaced it with a cool, polite detachment, a removal from the person even before introductions had begun. _

_"Indeed, Sir." _

---

"I know that you would say that I should quit this now, but I can't." She sat at the base of his somewhat crude monument. Charlotte delicately stretched a hand out to the stone, to trace the letters of his name, as if it would bring him back somehow.

"To be honest, James, I think you're still out there somewhere. It doesn't make much sense at all, I know. But it's a feeling I have, that I can't let go. And now with Gillette and this question of eyes… I cannot help but feel as if this is a sign."

She smiled wanly at the cold, polished stone. It reflected her gaze and she fingered the petals of a bouquet of native flowers. The heady fragrance wafted up lazily and she nestled it firmly by the base.

Unconsciously she rolled her shoulders. Charlotte had not slept well at all the last few days. The dismal preparations for James had cast an even larger shadow upon the household and Charlotte had never felt so alone before.

She startled as she felt a hand on her shoulder, and for a fleeting moment hoped that it was _his_ hand, but when she looked up it was into the somber gaze of Lieutenant Gillette.


	13. Chapter 13

Author's Note: Sorry I haven't posted recently but I've been rather sick. But I'm back. Also, sorry for not explaining this sooner, but James and Gillette served in what is here called the French and Indian War but elsewhere referred to as the Seven Year's War. They are, to James's dismay, situated on the North American continent. Reviews are most welcome!

_How does one dress for one's own funeral?_

James let a small smirk emerge and pulled his worn tricorn over his eyes a little lower. He looked vainly in the bucket of water for any trace of his former self. His normally dark brown hair had lightened up drastically in the ruthless sun and it had also grown considerably longer. Gone was his pale skin, replaced by a tougher tanner exterior.

Sighing, he secured his shoulder length hair at the nape of his neck and shrugged on a simple black coat one of the men had found somewhere. He frowned after smelling it, and decided that he didn't want to know where it came from after all. He peeked his head out of the alleyway they had occupied for the night, and was relieved not to be seen. James walked the familiar streets, his streets amazed and a little insulted that he wasn't recognized.

At first he was hesitant, walking about in the most inconspicuous manner he could think of, but after several failed attempts at recognition he concluded that it didn't matter.

"…_If I were to put your uniform on Governor Swann, I fear I wouldn't be able to discern a difference."_

He smiled to himself. James would have to tell her that she was right all along.

---

"…Let us go forth today, endeavoring to be better people, the kind of people James saw in ourselves."

Will sighed with relief and quickly rose, perhaps too soon as some of the more respectable members of Port Royale sent him admonishing glares. Elizabeth smiled demurely in his direction and flashed an icy reprimand of her own.

Suppressing a grimace, Will meandered off to the side of the growing crowd. He felt a tinge of remorse at being separated from Elizabeth, but then he saw the man again.

He stood there, at the very back of the crowd with his arms folded over his chest. His warm brown hair was coarse and crudely tied at the nape of his neck with a leather strap. Will wondered who the man was; as far as he knew, the man was new in town.

The man walked slowly, deliberately through the crowd, his tanned exterior betraying nothing of what he thought. He unconsciously touched his tricorn and pulled it lower, obscuring most of his face in shadows in the blaring glare of the sun. The man watched the crowd with a peculiar interest, as if he was there for the people rather than the service.

His interest sufficiently piqued, Will started to follow him. At first it had been with his eyes, watching that mysterious figure weave in and out of the mass effortlessly. He never greeted anyone, nor in turn was in any way acknowledged. The man was nervous, and he walked about as if expecting someone to attack him. Will was positive that he hadn't been noticed yet by the man, but when the man began to move out of his line of sight Will couldn't fight the urge to follow.

He unconsciously patted the pleasant weight at his side reassuringly. Since the _Dauntless_ incident, the streets of the city had become increasingly dangerous and Will did not wish to be on the receiving end of such treatment. It was perhaps the only advantage of such ridiculous finery. He had agreed to wear the abominable contraption for Elizabeth, but the cloth was designed with London not the Caribbean in mind.

Will pushed against the press of people hastily and pursued the black coat impatiently.

"Poor Mrs. Norrington, such a young widow!" The aged matron patted her hair in place as she shook her head at the blonde creature. Women of Port Royale had instigated a contest of sorts to see who could be the best dressed mourner of the entire area, and Will had never seen such an explosion of lace, silks and finery.

"Well, don't worry. I don't think she'll be a widow for very long. Our dearly departed Commodore left her with a fortune, you know." The younger of the two adjusted her dress, which in Will's opinion far too little to the imagination. At least Norrington's widow could carry on a decent impression of mourning. But Will ultimately had to agree with the obnoxious women that Mrs. Norrington would probably carry a new surname soon.

He supposed that there had not been much in the way of affection, after all when one marries strictly for money how could there be any strong inclination? Will felt a pang of remorse course through him then and he flinched. The man had certainly been a pain, far too rigid and stern for Will's taste. For a moment however, Will had been able to see the man behind the façade, the true Norrington that day up on the battlements and it unsettled him greatly. He remembered how James had drawn his sword but feeling no great threat. There was such a look of loss, of a sense of the forlorn in his expression that Will felt greatly reassured as he stepped up to the Commodore.

The man had kept such a steady gaze upon his sword as he spoke those words, as if it would be just too much to look Will in the eye. It was then that Will Turner was able to see James Norrington for James Norrington. There was no presence of that abrasive Commodore, just a man who had lost his fiancée.

_For all his faults, he doesn't deserve this. _

Will frowned at the two women, and vainly tried to remember their names. He tried, truly he did for Elizabeth's sake but it was no use. He could not summon interest that was not there. It was ridiculous but Commodore Norrington's funeral had turned into quite the social event. Most of Port Royale had made it there, encompassing the entire spectrum of society. Will had never understood it, but the lower classes of Port Royale had developed an indiscernible affinity for Norrington.

He saw out of the corner of his eye the long procession making its way to the fallen man's monument. The body had been so badly damaged, and in combination with the heat, it had been impossible to hold him for the ceremony and thus his body had been committed to the ground weeks before.

Will silently berated himself as he had once again become estranged from the curious visitor, only to see him slip away towards some nearby offices. Instinctively, Will pursued him with more zeal and less prudence than was desired. As he left the sight of the crowd, Will silently removed the loaded pistol from his pocket and continued down the corridor.

He desperately wished for his sword at that moment, but had considered it disrespectful to bring it to the funeral. Which as he looked down at his pistol, was all too ironic. Will walked slowly, cautiously down the empty corridor, trying to still his heart.

As he passed one door in specific, Will heard hurried movements and without thinking cast open the door. There the man stood, his back to Will, hurriedly scribbling down notes. He was taken completely aback and whirled to meet the offender.

Will automatically drew his pistol up and aimed at the man. He heard the click of the hammer and he swallowed. Guns were certainly less traversed territory with him. Will opened his mouth to speak when heard a voice approaching.

"Will?" Elizabeth asked breathlessly. He turned around a bit too sharply and saw her approach. "There you are. We're ready to start the reception."

She looked at him expectantly and Will sighed. He glanced over his shoulder, sure of what he would see. When he turned around the papers were gone and all that greeted him was an open window.

In the nights that would pass, Will would often think back to that one moment when he happened upon the man and wonder. He didn't remember much, just a dark whirl of cloth and hair and the unmistakable flash of green eyes.

---

James sat breathlessly from a rafter watching the interchange between the Turners. As he saw them depart he breathed a sigh of relief and looked around him. In the excitement of being caught, he had lunged for the nearest hiding place which turned out to be the rafter. James's tall frame had been more than suitably acceptable for the task and he smiled slightly. It had been such a familiar routine and he was pleased that it was not easily forgotten.

He remembered as a younger officer the scores of times he had evaded capture by heading for the highest point in the room, as people never look up when searching. Unfortunately for Gillette he was not quite so tall, and would normally be in trouble with one of the officers. Later, he could remember his own encounters with a brash Gillette and Groves still trying to polish their escape tactics. James sobered at the thought and he looked around for anyone approaching.

James swung himself down easily and finished copying the ledger. He drew a hand across his brow and momentarily leaned against the cool wall. It was too close for his comfort and he knew how very close he had come to being dead, again.

Looking out into the corridor he headed back outside. Everyone would be gone now, and he had one last thing to do before he left.

---

James walked out into the bright sunlight and was about to make his way to the monument when he stopped abruptly in the shadows of the corridor.

Charlotte. She was there. _She cares after all. _

After the time they had spent apart James was suddenly nervous. He swallowed anxiously and watched her from afar. Charlotte brushed an errant strand of blonde hair from her face impatiently. The harsh, midday sun exposed dark circles under her eyes, giving them a darker humor. She was pale and her face strained, with her hair unobtrusively tucked away in a neat bun.

The people of Port Royale silently shuffled out and back home, but she lingered at a small monument that was somewhat crudely etched in his name. Now that everyone had gone she let out a long sigh and crumpled right there. He unconsciously moved forward, as if to touch her, to comfort her but he held himself back at the last minute. Gillette walked up to her and put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

Swallowing hard, James forced himself to slip away, all too painfully aware suddenly of what he had lost.


	14. Chapter 14

Charlotte sat eagerly on the edge of her seat as she and Gillette rather fervently explained their new predicament. The Governor sat there, listening but still unmoved. It had been an especially trying day and he simply wanted to be done with it.

He smiled sympathetically and began. "I understand what you two are saying, but do you two understand? What you're saying is that James Norrington is still alive, but if that were the case then where has he been? Why hasn't he identified himself yet?"

Weatherby watched Mrs. Norrington with interest. She had certainly proved everyone in Port Royale wrong. Many of the aristocracy, if they indeed could be called that, were struck by her actions since the death of James. While the rest of the women fought over who was the most fashionably dressed mourner, Mrs. Norrington wore a simple black dress. She took no pains in her appearance, and seemed to favor necessity for fashion. Port Royale had been scandalized by her lack of "social grace," but Weatherby could not agree. He was normally as socially conscious as could be without be without being classified as obsessive, but this was different. It was a close subject for Weatherby, and he thought back to his own Jemima.

As a younger man, he had been ambitious much in the same way James had been and had reveled in the glory of Parliament. Weatherby had been adept at the politicking and the back room channels but he had lost sight. He dedicated himself to his work, determined to be one of the most powerful men in the country. Unfortunately his family fell to the wayside, and it was not until Jemima's death that he was able to see. She had been taken so quickly, in the throngs of childbirth, and left him in the care of an infant Elizabeth. Gone were his ambitions of glory and power, as well as his male heir. Hastily blinking away approaching tears he turned his focus back to the impatient duo.

Charlotte looked at Gillette and he shrugged. "Perhaps he is worried that the people looking for him will come again."

Weatherby sighed wearily and frowned. "I'm sorry but all you've shown me is that Lieutenant Gillette has poor eye color recall. How am I to explain a man hunt for a man whom we just buried? Do you know what the implications are?"

"That James was somehow involved with Groves as well." Gillette finished, stunned at the weight of his own words. Weatherby looked after the Lieutenant and the corners of his mouth quirked with distaste. Lieutenant Gillette had always left a bad aftertaste in the Governor's mouth, one that he couldn't quite explain. He was brash without any conviction behind it, speaking his mind too frequently for Weatherby's taste. Not like James at all. With James, you always knew where he stood and furthermore why.

He suppressed the mounting irritation at the young Lieutenant and leaned back in his chair. "Indeed. Which is why, unless if you have something more substantive to offer, I would suggest you let it lie for now."

Gillette pondered this for a moment, and furrowed his brow deep in concentration. He flexed his jaw and nodded slightly. Charlotte sat next to him in bewilderment, her laudable composure from earlier in the day slowly eroding.

"I cannot believe that that would be the case, Sir." She said finally, straightening up just slightly at the pronunciation.

He stared down at his hands, considering Mrs. Norrington's words. James had become something of a surrogate son to Swann over the years that he had known the young man. Weatherby remembered how impatient James was in the beginning, always ready to fight. What had struck him most about the man, however, was the talent that lurked beneath the surface. Swann had glimpsed from the beginning that this young man was different from the rest, always thinking ahead. Weatherby had latched on that and helped smooth out some of James's sharper frays.

Weatherby looked at Charlotte, wishing he had some answer other than the one he could give. "A ship of the King's Navy was taken with force and all of her crew, save for Lieutenant Gillette, were killed. As Governor of Jamaica, I must find these people out and dispense with them. We are already looking for Lieutenant Groves for this attack, and if we were to question the death of James Norrington, that would lead people to assume that he too was a …traitor. I would then have to issue an arrest warrant for his capture and arrest as well."

Gillette's gaze sharpened and his brows furrowed further still. "Do you believe in redemption, Sir?"

He inwardly sighed, wishing desperately to dispense with formalities. "I beg your pardon?"

Nathaniel ignored the pointed glances from the two, and licking his lips he continued. "What you're saying is that my two closest friends hatched a plan to betray us all. What, exactly, would be the point of such an action?"

Something at that moment snapped with Weatherby Swann. Normally a man infrequently inclined to anger, he found none of his legendary patience or affability at the present. "Well now, that would be the duty of the King's Navy to determine, wouldn't it?"

Gillette stood, breathing heavily. "I disagree, Sir. There is no mystery here, just a bunch of pirates. We must hunt them down and acquaint them with Gallows Point."

"And how do you explain that gash on your head, Lieutenant?"

Nathaniel ducked his head, flushed with the emotion of the argument. "Groves and I disagreed, and perhaps he did have something to do with the attack, but I could never imagine that he wished to see harm to everyone he cared about- his country, his family, his friends."

Swann angrily snatched up a document and slammed it down on the desk. "This, Sir, is from James Norrington, written just days before his death. It outlines his suspicion of foul dealings on the part of someone within."

Gillette looked dumbstruck at the document. "Perhaps you should check your own men. They seem well equipped at the art of deception."

Weatherby rose as well and growled, "I fail to see how our _conversation_ relates to redemption of the men."

The Lieutenant had already made a few paces for the door, but he deigned to pause and over his shoulder he softly replied, "I wasn't talking about them, Sir."


	15. Chapter 15

Author's Note: Last chapter before spring break! Enjoy and review please!

James wearily sat down to the meager fire and gladly accepted a cup of "coffee." He had been able to slip away inconspicuously and was lucky to make it back by nightfall. One of the men had been paid for some work in cornmeal, and they discovered that once burned it made a permissible substitute for coffee.

Norrington grimaced as he saw another bird roasting for dinner. They were hard pressed for food and shelter and James was loath to resort to stealing. While beautifully colored, they had quickly discovered that the birds left much to the imagination for taste. James watched as one of the sailors, Johnson he believed, slowly and methodically sliced up the bread fruit for the fire. There was only so much that bread fruit could do for a man after all, yet there was something strangely comforting about the ritual involved in food preparation. He absentmindedly raked a hand through his hair and leaned forward on his knees. What had he gotten himself into?

Norrington looked sorrowfully at the men collected around the fire. They had all faithfully stayed by his side despite the hardships, despite the fact that they had not been able to visit any of their loved ones, despite the fact that they were now presumed traitors.

"What is it, Sir?" Murtogg, one of the Marines asked, looking up from his meal. James suppressed a grimace as he watched the man pick at the roasted ox tail. The man had always had a quiet innocence about him, but James could not find it anymore. His gentle face and kind smile were marred by worry lines and lack of sleep, and his eyes had adopted a lackluster shade of brown. Almost like a dog who had been kicked one too many times.

_They were about ready to launch when Murtogg ran up carrying a fallen comrade. He looked from face to face in desperation._

_"Please, take Mullroy here with you. He's injured badly and… and he needs help."_

_A collective and sympathetic groan of protest began but Murtogg would not be swayed. "He's like a brother to me, and I could not leave him here to die like this. Please, he's the only family I have left."_

_James flashed an insistent look at the men and with that, the men irritatedly made room for the bloodied man. James was particularly moved. All of his other encounters with that infamous duo had left him with the impression that between the two of them, they hadn't possessed a whit of sense. _

_Perhaps, he mused, you were only accepting what you first saw. It is harder after all, to send men into battle with whom you know well. _

_He flinched at the thought and raised a hand. "Wait, Murtogg, you come too."_

James snorted. "Enough with the rank." He paused. The words had come out harsher than he had wished. "What I mean is that we're all here together. You men chose to help me when you didn't have to, when you still don't have to. So please, the least I can do is have you address me by my Christian name- James."

The men shuffled uncomfortably with the sudden informality, but slowly they nodded.

"I've been thinking about it, and we can't get much done here together. We're too suspicious as a group. So I propose that we disperse throughout the city and try to gain intelligence."

James paused a moment and looked at his men. They all stood straight at the last sentence. He knew what he was asking of his men, and he lowered his eyes respectfully. To ask them to spy was a grave affair. Although they might not be gentlemen per se, they knew the implications of the proposed action. If they were caught, there would be no firing squad, no honor. They would face the noose as nothing better than a pirate, perhaps worse. He remembered the struggle he had in the years before, trying to convince men to spy for their country, and how many fine men did decline the offer.

He rose and started pacing, trying to compose his thoughts quickly before continuing. "I know what I ask of you is a lot, but what choice do we have? They have determined that we are traitors and will arrest us upon sight. So gentlemen, what choice do we have? We can either live like dogs, like criminals, forsaking family, friends, all connection until our deaths, or we can hunt down those who did this."

James paused there and pointedly locked gazes with each man. Even Mullroy lifted his head from his coat pillow to listen. Some men hesitated, but he watched as more and more men rose to his call and confidently looked him in the eyes. Norrington felt a swell of pride looking at his men, and a feeling of worth and accomplishment washed over him.

"If you will take upon yourselves this endeavor with me, I swear upon my sacred honor as a gentleman that I will do everything in my power to return you to your previous life." James felt a fire within ignite and his cheeks flushed in the excitement. They were going home.

---

Elizabeth happily walked into her bedroom, thankful that it was finally over. All of it. She lazily began to peel off the many layers of dress she had on, only too happy to be left alone. With the funeral had come an unsettling sense of peace for Elizabeth. James was dead, his body committed to the earth for eternity, and with it the sordid history between them.

_"You don't love me any more than you did that day on the Dauntless."_

She had to own that James had been right on many aspects. Elizabeth was well schooled in the theories, the words of people. She had never had to fight for anything, as it was always handed to her. Until Barbossa. It changed her perspective on things. She had loved pirates and the very thought of them. Brigands on the seas, being as free as they desired. Captain Sparrow had affirmed her fantasies of them. They were daring, wicked and flaunted it in front of society. That freedom was the very freedom she wished to harness herself.

It wasn't until after all the commotion of the incident settled that she was able to catch a glimpse. She had been so busy before with preparations for her wedding(s) that she hadn't thought much about the crew of the _Dauntless_ or the people of Port Royale.

But today when she walked into the cemetery for the first time since the _Black Pearl_, Elizabeth finally understood what price James had paid, the price they all had paid. The graveyard had multiplied in the weeks since the attack, and there was hardly a woman there who wasn't in mourning. Many of the dead were left without family, or were too poor to afford an actual grave marker so they had been buried collectively in a large pit. The dark, moist earth had been neatly mounded over the dead and tiny shoots of grass and other flora began to emerge. Another large pit had been dug for the crew of the _Dauntless_, as a number of the crew had no family there. Elizabeth had sat there, through the entire ceremony looking at all the tear streaked faces and the mass of black and appreciated her own good fortune. The sorrow of death, of suffering hadn't truly touched her and for that she was thankful.

A knock sounded at her door and she turned around to see Will. He walked in awkwardly as if afraid to break anything. She gave him a small smile and he walked over to her.

"Are you all right?" He asked softly.

She paused, thinking. "I- yes."

Will let out a long sigh and looked frankly at her. It never failed to surprise her how expressive his large brown eyes could be. They always betrayed what he truly thought. He reached out and gently plucked her hand, touching the harsh pink stripe on her palm. "What's happened to us, Elizabeth?"

She frowned, unsure of where the conversation was heading. Elizabeth felt a prick of worry, of apprehension at his next words. Will seemed to sense her worry and paused to think through his words. "What's happened, why has everything changed?"

He gestured to her outfit and looked at her questioningly. "Look at you, Elizabeth. You went to a funeral in your finest lace and silks." He picked up a tortoise shell comb idly and played with it. "Why- why do you listen to them?"

Will had taken her completely by surprise and she struggled for words. He gently guided her to a mirror and gestured. "Look at yourself. Here you are in your finest, in a corset with stays so tightly laced that you almost fell down the stairs, and your hair in the latest fashion. And why did you do this? Because all the other women of Port Royale did. I thought we went to a funeral today, Elizabeth, but now I don't know who it was truly for."

She turned sharply and looked at him. "What do you mean, Will?"

He shook his head and started to walk away. "This was a bad idea, forgive me Elizabeth."

"No." She startled at the sharpness of her voice, but continued. "What's wrong, what's troubling you?"

Will shuffled his feet and frowned. "Elizabeth, when we were with Jack, when we were on the _Black Pearl_ things were different. We were happy, we didn't have ridiculous fights and you didn't have thoughts about the Commodore. But-but when we arrived back here, everything changed. You started wearing those ridiculously expensive dresses and attending teas, and I became a bastard son of a pirate."

Tears pricked her eyes and a wave of shame fell over her. It had been so easy when they were on the ship, where there was no one watching them, talking about them. But when they arrived home, things changed. Although her father had grudgingly accepted Will, he always reminded her of her duties as the daughter of the Governor of Jamaica and hostess to all his functions. It was not appropriate to wear breeches and her hair down anymore, and for goodness sake, could she please stop commending pirates? She had felt this oppressive wave of hopelessness. A feeling that perhaps she had made the wrong choice, and that it was a sign that things were going so badly.

"Elizabeth." Will said softly, seizing her by her shoulders. "You need to stop listening to them. All of them, even your father."

She looked at him with quiet admiration. Will always seemed able to discern her thoughts. "Don't think about them, don't think about Port Royale society, don't think about me. Just close your eyes and listen to yourself. What do you want?"

Elizabeth opened her eyes. "I-I don't know."

Will nodded, expecting that answer. "Elizabeth, you must decide." He gestured to her room, "Look at this place. Look at it. We've been set up pretty nicely here by your father, for the sake of appearances, but this isn't life Elizabeth. You can't have it both ways."

"Will, what are you saying?"

He caressed her hand softly and smiled. "Elizabeth, I love you, I always have and I always will. I know what I want, but I don't think you do. Look at this house, this is what's wrong with us. I married you, Elizabeth Swann, not Port Royale."

She watched him, enraptured in his words. He sighed heavily, "You can have your high profile, glamorous life or you can have a life with me. I can't guarantee you all the fineries of life, but I can give you something you won't find here- unconditional love and support. I took you for who you are, not who you're supposed to be.

"I'll be at the forge, should you need me."

Elizabeth nodded slowly, and wistfully looked back at the reflection in the mirror.


	16. Chapter 16

Author's Note: Spring break is almost done and with that comes another chapter. Reviews are most appreciated.

In the warm glow of lamplight Elizabeth Swann sat at her vanity looking in the mirror, her elbow propped on the surface and her head resting on her fist. Her dark brows furrowed and her lips parted slightly in a deep contemplation.

"Am I a Turner, or am I a Norrington?" She whispered, pulling up her hair in a mock London fashion. Elizabeth retrieved a gold necklace from a drawer. It had been her mother's favorite, and Elizabeth touched it reverently. After all the years, it had still served as an almost sacred link to a woman she had barely beheld, associated more by reputation than by any familiarity. Slowly she raised it to her neckline, where it had rested firmly that day on the battlements, a steady guide, an anchor during a day of complete chaos.

Would balls, salons and grand estates compose the rest of her life? It would be a comfortable existence to be sure, familiar like an old pair of slippers. She was well associated with the customs, with what was expected, prescribed. It was what had attracted and repulsed her about James. He had been such an imposing figure at the onset, a face composed like the stone of Fort Charles. But after the incident with Barbossa, she had discovered the catacombs, the complexities of the man. She had known him since childhood, but there had been so much more to the man than what she had recalled.

And during their week long engagement, there had been an underlying tenderness with him that she could hardly explain. She was not another prize, another conquest but a woman with whom he had developed a deep affection. In private he had been passionate, providing her with one of her first kisses. His arms had been warm, protective, inviting and she had been so confused. Guilt had overcome her, as she had taken up the task not out of the same love or affection but out of that of another.

She had been struck by his boyishness, his ease at frank conversation once the doors were closed, once his wig was off. He had a lovely smile, wide, open without guile and he possessed such an expressive brow. How the lilt of one eyebrow could indicate so much!

But she had been equally struck by how quickly that disappeared, under the weight of brocade and the public. How cold and distant he could become once people were around. The day of Jack's trip to the gallows, she had been angry, but she didn't know with whom she was angrier- with Will for having been remiss in confessing his feelings, with James for his silence, his detachment, or perhaps herself, using this as her only litmus to determine her own affections.

_"This is wrong."_

_He stood there, and gave her a side long glance, all too aware of her recent disapproval. Weatherby, having sensed the tension spoke up. She heard his words, but she kept her gaze trained on James. He ducked his head, as if he were ashamed that he could not summon a response. It was he who she wanted to hear, not her Father, not King George, but her fiancée. And then Will walked up. _

---

"Nathaniel?"

Oh Lord it was her. He had ensconced himself in his quarters, leery of traversing the outside world, knowing his temper was stretched to a thin line. The sky was darkening and Gillette had doused out all the lights, save for the small fire. It was oddly comforting, the darkness. In the coolness, the obscurity of the darkness, Nathaniel was able to feel his anger slowly subside and he was finally able to sort through his irritation at the futility of the situation. Unfortunately his progress was somewhat impeded by some rather vociferous, if not persistent knocking. Conceding defeat, Gillette rose slowly from his trance like state and made his way to the door. He found himself straightening his jacket unconsciously, his fingers fumbling with the lapels. The fire, low in the hearth cackled at him and he stared into the fire a moment, the heat of the flames the warmth of the glow enlivening his brown eyes.

He slowly opened the door and startled at the change of light. Charlotte stood there with a mixture of worry and impatient anger on her face, and she pushed past him into the parlor-like room. Nathaniel watched her, such a strong, forceful creature was a hard creature to find in the Caribbean. The wan glow of fire washed over her in warm honeyed tones, and she struck such a solitary figure in the firelight. She was a riddle to Nathaniel, and someone he felt a desire to protect.

He bowed his head in frustration, irritation at himself. He was her protector, the overall manager of her estate, her money. And yet, thus so far she had served as more of a protector for him than anything else. It was she that smoothed over, glossed over his too frank tongue, who served as a balm for the wounds, the barbs he and others had inflicted on each other.

Nathaniel wished he could thank her, spare her from the cruel realities they now faced. But there was no shielding one from the world. She was still so young in a way, such a small figure in such a large and largely unkind island, both institutional and otherwise. He had been like that once, just awaking to the hypocrisies, the double standards of life. Perhaps if she had some help she could still turn out well.

Nathaniel had always fought with his tongue, willing himself to pause before saying exactly what he thought, but he was done with the formalities. There was a prescribed rule for everything, and Weatherby was the human incarnation of that evil. He still could not believe that others would be capable of conceiving complicity on the part of James and Theodore. Nathaniel knew, deep down that there was no complicity there and any entertainment of such an idea was purely a disservice to them all.

He had behaved abominably, especially to the Governor and despite their differences in temper and well, everything, he had to make amends. Nathaniel vaguely considered sending a letter, but that would do no good. It was such a superfluous gesture, and Nathaniel hated it. He needed to do something. Something palpable.

"Nathaniel?" Charlotte walked over to him and touched his shoulder gently, waking him from his solitary revels.

He looked frankly at her and Charlotte returned the gaze uncertainly. "James once said that one good deed was not enough to save a man from a lifetime of wickedness, but what of the other way around? Is one bad deed enough to condemn a man to eternal damnation? Should it not be a converse effect? And if so, then what level are we, the ninth?" Gillette's brown eyes sparkled with an intensity, a passion that Charlotte had seldom seen on him before.

She knit her brows, "I hardly think our situation compares to that of Brutus or Judas, Nathaniel. What exactly, is it that has you so worried?"

He had started pacing again, and Charlotte struggled to keep up with his long strides. He knew it was wrong, he should slow down so that she could at least keep pace with him, but his anger surfaced and he could not give it up.

"What is wrong," he started slowly, "is this. This system they have devised for us here. There is no room for someone to breathe, to think. Do you not feel it?"

Gillette searched her eyes and found a solemn recognition.

"I say that we should go and search out these pirates expediently, but instead I am met with continual blocks, with continual delays. Captain Hannum has done nothing. He believes that this was done by some errant pirates out looking for a prize. We need to find them before they find us. Extraordinary events demand extraordinary motives. They would content themselves with such a cheap, tawdry idea that James and Theodore did this, rather than actually confront the problem before them.

"But then additionally, we have to also deal with men such as Governor Weatherby Swann, who is nothing more than a glorified skirt wearing nursemaid."

Charlotte chuckled at the last comment and swept a hand through her hair. "I suppose we should become more like James in that respect and we must woo them, Lieutenant." Her eyes danced with an unexpected levity and she raised an eyebrow.

The final strands broke at her subtle teasing and he knew that there was no use debating the point further. The heat that had flushed his cheeks had dissipated and he settled back into his chair where they sat there in silence, each trying to understand an impossible situation.


	17. Chapter 17

Author's Note: Just a warning right now, the odious topic of slavery comes up in this chapter. Partially because of some sense of historical accuracy, but also for character development. In the Caribbean, slavery was far worse than in the N. American colonies, and I've tried to use accurate numbers. If this is excessively offensive to you, just email me and I'll send you the spark notes version of the chapter. The Grange actually belongs to the Alexander Hamilton's lineage, and most of the facts in this chapter are taken from Chernow's biography of Hamilton, as a young Alexander lived on St. Kitts. Reviews are always welcome.

Charlotte fumbled with her riding habit in the cool morning air. It had been another long night, and she longed for her bed. But it was another day and there was much work to be done.

It was no great surprise on her part to witness the exchange between Gillette and Swann. They were two strong willed men who had the unfortunate luck to oppose one another. As Governor of Jamaica, Swann was the official head of the government of King George and there was something in that fact that chaffed Nathaniel, she had noticed.

She sighed, not truly understanding either man and their silent avowal to hate one another. Charlotte relished in the comfort of the less restrictive dress and she wondered idly what would be before her today. After his temper had cooled, Gillette and Charlotte had spent the remainder of the night poring over James's will and the entailments of his estate. There was a great deal more to the estate than Charlotte had ever imagined, and a great deal more to do. Unfortunately, Gillette's sick leave was soon drawing to a close and he would go back to the fort- potentially as a Captain. He would not have much time realistically to help Charlotte with managing the estate, and so the remainder would fall to James's steward, Jacomb White. Charlotte had no recollection of the man, and she felt a flutter of nervousness in her chest.

He had requested her person that day, but she had no idea whatever for. The job of maintaining the estate would be Mr. White's and Charlotte was perfectly content to comply with that standard.

"Mrs. Norrington?" Charlotte jumped at the man's voice and she turned about quickly.

She could not resist raising an eyebrow at the boy before her. He was tall and thin with dark auburn hair, almost brown, and clear violet eyes. He bowed respectfully to his mistress before looking dubiously at her attire.

"It would be best, mistress, if you would change into something more… practical."

Charlotte looked at him questioningly, "Forgive me, but you are…?"

The boy blushed and attempted to recover by lifting his chin just slightly. "My apologies ma'am, I am Paul Stevens. Mr. White asked me to escort you to the estate, as it is not safe in the streets anymore.

"The land there is very different from that here, and it would be best if you were to put on breeches."

_Breeches?_ A moment of levity at the absurdity of the situation overcame her, and a wide smile erupted."Are we to be invaded by pirates? Or should I consult a mermaid?" James had told her of Gillette's errant comment once and it was uttered before she was aware of it.

Paul Stevens looked at her with his piercing violet eyes, and he affected a sort of laugh. Charlotte could not help it, she could not help but revolt at the idea. It went against all the years of training she had received. After all, she was a lady. She had heard vague stories of women wearing breeches and such, but she was devoid of any desire to gain friends and fame through that avenue.

Paul could see that it was futile to argue at that point and he looked to the approaching sun. "Well, we must be going at any rate."

She smiled, thankful he would not press the subject further and she gladly accepted his help mounting the horse. However, she was afforded another strange glance when she firmly sat side saddled. He shook his head and she could have sworn he muttered something under his breath before swinging himself up on his mount.

---

Charlotte soon realized why Paul had advised her to wear breeches, as the terrain out of town soon became rough and sitting side saddle made her prone to falling. Stevens sensed her difficulty and slowed his pace to accommodate her.

"So tell me, Mr. Stevens, what sort of man is Mr. White?"

Paul paused and looked at the bay before him before responding. "He's a good man, an honest man but a strict one. But don't let that put you off ma'am, he would have died in the name of the Master."

At the last part of the sentence, Paul's face contorted painfully, and he looked quickly to the hills before them to hide his reaction. His pride would not endure it for long however, and his head lifted imperceptibly as he looked over at her again.

They rode in complete silence for a while, which suited her well. She had never traversed that far into the island and she was impressed with the surroundings. It was nothing like London at all, nor anything else on the European Continent. Caribbean flowers were not prim, they were not smallish creatures that adorned an estate, rather they demanded attention. Large blooms erupted in bursts of bright colors that man had yet to recreate. The gaudy baubles danced lazily in the slight morning breeze and native birds of which she did not know their names awoke with the sun and started their greetings. Monkeys lazily swung from tall palms, and Charlotte could not help but smile. It struck her how green everything was, and how vibrant the colors were of the birds, the flowers, everything.

She looked back over her shoulder to see the inhabitants of Port Royale gently rising from their peaceful slumber. A slight mist hung over the city, shrouding it in obscurity. She watched as the amber and rose tones of the sun's rays skimmed over the whites and browns of the city structures. Charlotte had never noticed how forlorn the city looked compared to the color, the vibrancy of their surroundings. Stately buildings stretched their pristine white columns to the sky but they could not compare in either color or grandeur to the jungle, and she bit her lip in trying to prevent a frown.

It was all such a farce, such a horrible rendition. They had expended so much time and energy trying to recreate London with their theaters and balls, but there could be no recreation. She looked down at her riding habit and vainly tried to adjust it. It suddenly was hard to breathe, and she longed to be free from the restraint of the city.

Recovering herself, she saw that they were fast approaching a wide spread of buildings. Paul looked at her and flashed a reassuring smile. He stepped down lightly and made his way over to help her down.

They were soon met by an older man, his cheeks ruddy from the wind and sun and his peppered gray hair gathered at his neck. A large smile emerged and he offered a wide, rough hand.

"Mrs. Norrington?" He asked gently.

She mustered a warm smile and affirmed. Charlotte looked around, taking in her new surroundings. Buildings had been gathered and people frequented different ones for their various needs. She took a deep breath, breathing in the faint scent of flowers and horses.

"I'm Jacomb White, ma'am. Today I thought I should show you around the estate and let you see for yourself what goes on. Although, you should change into something more suitable."

Paul flashed him an exasperated look, and Charlotte sighed vainly in concession of defeat. "I would, sir, but I have nothing appropriate at my convenience."

Jacomb studied her a moment and motioned her to a small home off to the edge of the rest. He had her wait in a makeshift parlor while he went in search of something. It wasn't long before he came back with a pair of breeches, shirt and coat. Jacomb handed her the clothing unceremoniously and quietly clicked the door shut behind him.

Charlotte vainly looked at her riding habit, and sighed. She was trapped, there was no way she could reach some of the buttons and she vaguely considered searching for a knife. But that would not do. She quietly peeked her head out the parlor, only to be met with an impatient Mr. White. He looked curiously at her a moment before startling at her predicament.

He summoned a small, plump woman that Charlotte could only assume was Mrs. White and she graciously offered some help. Charlotte had never worn breeches before and the only word she could find to describe it was naughty, such as the times she had been caught sneaking pastries as a child.

It was a completely different experience, to have one's legs free of the constraints. The clothing was light and she was able to breathe, to move as much as she so desired. Charlotte stood transfixed, moving her arms and legs in turn about in the most absurd fashion, and Mrs. White just shook her head. Bashfully, Charlotte caught her gaze and blushed.

Finally, she shrugged on the coat and she was assaulted by a familiar scent. It enveloped her and she struggled to remember what it was. She studied the coat more closely, the rough fabric striking her skin. It was large on her and went down well past her knees but it was comfortable. The color had faded to a mossy green and there were sweat stains on the collar. Unconsciously she drew the coat tighter around her frame and breathed in deeply.

_James._ It was him, his coat. It was the smell of the shaving cream he used every morning.

She hastily passed a kerchief over her eyes and thanked the woman before meeting Mr. White.

Jacomb smiled pleasantly at her and gestured to the buildings. "This, ma'am, is where your husband made his fortune, and now it is yours."

She stood and looked around in disbelief. This was it. Not from prize money, not from his own father, but from mills. The buildings were evenly spaced out and she looked at the white conical structures with amazement. Charlotte gave him a questioning glance and Jacomb smiled back.

"Mrs. Norrington, what you see here are some of the largest sugar mills in Jamaica, if not this part of the Caribbean. Your husband rented these out to local farmers for less than what they could find in the city or other plantations. You should see it during harvesting season. It's ablaze with fires, almost like daylight."

Charlotte nodded politely and looked around curiously. "Mr. White, I'm afraid I don't understand. I've heard the plantation owners talk about their own boiling houses and mills- are these somehow different?"

Jacomb nodded in approval, pleased that she was not simple. "No, plantation owners do own their own, but this isn't for them. There are very few actual plantation owners, Mrs. Norrington. They own many acres and slaves but they're just a fraction. Many others are small farmers struggling to keep out of debtors prison. They don't own enough land or slaves to be able to have a real plantation, or afford their own mills. So the young Master created this. He had all this built when he came to the Caribbean and it's served him well.

"I worked on his father's estate for many years and knew him since he was a young lad. When he came here, he asked his father if he could have me. He wanted me as his steward. And that's how I'm here now."

The man smiled with a mixture of pride and sadness and he looked at the buildings as if they were his own. Charlotte studied the large windmills dotted along with apparent interest before she began. "Forgive me, Mr. White, but where are the slaves? Lieutenant Gillette and I went over the records last night, but briefly and there was no mention of them. James did keep records, didn't he?"

Jacomb looked at her incredulously and frowned. He started slowly, considering his words before he began. "The Master did not own any slaves upon his death."

Charlotte chuckled a little before she realized he wasn't joking. "You're serious then?

He nodded, suddenly uncomfortable. His watery blue eyes shifted about and seemed to settle upon a spot above her brow. "He saved yours."

She nodded in approval and relaxed a bit. The small amount of slaves from her dowry were all that she had left to a past now long dead. Her father had been a rich man, and could afford a lavish lifestyle for his family. But then the Battle of Minden arrived, and many awful truths were revealed. The family estate, The Grange, had to be sold to pay for all the expenses and they had moved themselves into her uncle's home while her brother, Charles sought a way out. What little they had left had been packed away for another time, another life they hoped would revisit them again.

A faint flush crept up in her cheeks and she looked to her side sharply to hide her emotion. "Could you show them to me please? Or are they out in the fields?"

Jacomb ran a rough hand over his brow and beckoned her to follow. He walked quickly, oblivious to her difficulty in walking in the soft ground in her heeled shoes, and White stopped abruptly before a small gathering of huts.

She frowned in disappointment that they were not in the fields yet and she peeked her head into one of them. It was an unfamiliar sight for Charlotte, there was laughter, there was a fire and a solid hearth. Strange aromas of a breakfast teased her nostrils and she stepped out immediately. The faces in there had exposed white teeth and eyes open and clear, not downcast as she had expected. _They were happy._

"Do you not believe in the whip, Sir?" She asked unabashedly. Jacomb nearly choked and he sputtered, grasping for a response. Charlotte rolled her eyes in impatience. She did not know what sort of estate Mr. Jacomb White was accustomed to running but she expected competence. This was the last remaining part of her father's once large fortune and they were languishing in the warm air and plentiful food.

"Look at them. They've gone soft." She crossed her arms over her chest impatiently as she waited for an explanation.

Jacomb wished at that moment to be anywhere but there and he struggled in vain for the right words. "Mrs. Norrington, I'm sure you're used to plantations and estates like in the North American Colonies. But this is the Caribbean. Things are much different."

He took her roughly by the shoulders and spun her around, so she could see the estate around her. Jacomb leaned over her shoulder and spoke forcefully. "Look around here, ma'am. It's the Caribbean. It's hot, hotter than anything in the Mother Country. We must fight the fever, pox, and a host of other diseases as well as pirates and the French.

"Three months. That's the test here. If they're not dead in three months there's a slight chance they might last 3 years. But over half are dead before five. If they aren't dead by that time, they're horribly crippled, disfigured, whatever. Because of this, the plantation owners work them hard, harder than anything you've ever seen. They spend all this money on them and they want every drop of it. It doesn't matter that the heat is so unbearable that they drop right where they stand, they want their money.

"The Master did not have a problem with slaves until he came here. He tried to run a smallish plantation, but he did not have the time to devote to it. It's harsh, they died and he couldn't summon the will to continue it. The plantation owners here, they wear fine clothes and drive those stately carriages Mistress, but don't be fooled. They run their slaves in a line with a man for every ten, whipping them constantly- as if they could forget."

Jacomb searched her eyes for some glimmer of understanding but found only confusion. She was still too far removed, too sheltered. "I-it's not economical."

Charlotte furrowed her brow, and at last seemed to understand. It was going to be a long day.


	18. Chapter 18

Author's Note: In the 18th Century if a member of some prestige were to have an illegitimate child, they could take them in under the pretence of a distant member of the family, but it would be socially accepted and inferred that the child was in fact theirs. Also the techniques in this chapter are not fabricated, and Mount Whoredom belongs to old Boston. Reviews would be really appreciated.

---

Weatherby sat in his study glumly looking at the stack of papers retrieved from Lieutenant Groves's quarters. He idly sifted through them himself, hoping he wouldn't find it. Theodore Groves's effects had finally been sorted through, and the most important papers and other belongings were hauled before Swann.

He watched with a quiet sadness as the trunks were hauled before him and set down with a definitive thunk. Groves was the unacknowledged son of a high member of parliament. When his mother had died, the man took him in to raise as one of his own. Weatherby could still remember the little boy tottering around the parlor, his cherubic face glowing in the light. There had never been a cross word or look to come from the boy nor the man. Mischief had played more on the mind of the young man than any real ambition. It was his "family" that garnered all his connections and good fortune. Groves's hedonistic tendencies had consequently fallen on blind eyes and his promotions had come quickly, too quickly to some. His had been an especially hard letter to write home.

The most incriminating thing to come the search so far had been the revelation of an affair Groves was apparently carrying on with the wife of one of the officers. Which was not at all a surprise to anyone in society.

Weatherby glared at his attendants in annoyance at the loud rustle of paper, almost like a dull murmur that permeated his study. He wearily rubbed his eyes and considered a turn about the gardens while things were sorted. The gout was still there, but he found that walks seemed to ease the pain somewhat. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair some more, trying to find a comfortable perch while he too looked over the stack of documents before him.

Swann found himself looking out the window before too long, and he wished Elizabeth were there. He found that their visits were becoming more and more sporadic, with a greater number of days in between where they did not converse. Weatherby had sent a letter there that morning but still waited for a response.

It left the house emptier if it was possible, and Weatherby wished for some human contact. His servants were trained well, bowing at the correct times, always displaying the proper amount of deferential respect but it wasn't the same. At that point, he might have even greeted Lieutenant Gillette's presence with a degree of warmth.

Weatherby aimlessly picked up an errant dispatch that had haunted him for weeks now. The parchment had been well worn and the edges were fraying from over use. Some of the letters had become smudged but it made no difference, Swann had read it so many times that he knew it practically by heart. _It is my opinion Sir, that the attack of the Black Pearl on Port Royale could not have been possible without additional knowledge and guidance…_

Swann blinked rapidly and whispered, "My dear boy, what ever did you get yourself into?"

He knew not whether it was from guilt or wishful thinking, but Weatherby felt compelled to believe or at least want to believe Mrs. Norrington. He had after all, failed James as well. Swann had spent his life dedicated to the pursuit of the right course, of temperance and waiting until the right moment. But in this fight, had he missed something? James had been so adamant the days before the attack on the _Dauntless, _but Weatherby had just attributed it to stress.

Irritation with everyone had been riding high in the weeks before and the Governor had not been an exception. He had advised James on his own wedding day not to do things too fast. James had taken the sacking of the town as a blessing and had quickly moved for reform, for change. Weatherby could agree with some of the proposals, such as the removal of Mount Whoredom. As the city now stood, it was situated on a small hill on the outskirts of the city, furtively looking down upon the inhabitants of Port Royale. But the addition of guns on the other side of the bay, where they could be trained on the actual bay itself was too disconcerting for the members of the higher echelons of society. Not only was the implication that the town was not completely safe, but that the noose was tightening on the port itself.

As James had put it, _"Whoever rules the waves rules everything else."_

Smugglers still were in the majority, going from the Caribbean to the Americas to England. With pirating seemingly nearing an end, James returned his focus on the other smugglers. It was even rumored that wealthy colonial, John Hancock had personally denounced the "boy upstart" who threatened his shipping. And coupled with the recent news of the so called "massacre" in Boston, it made for a tense situation.

Perhaps James, in retrospect, knew something they didn't that compelled him to speak so forcibly. But now that information was lost, perhaps forever and they that were living had the task of making sense of it all.

His hand faltered and hovered over a rather mundane letter that had somehow worked its way into the stack. Weatherby sighed and picked it up.

_My Dear Friend, _

_How does the Caribbean treat you? Well I trust. London is as usual, a dull affair…_

Weatherby frowned at the ridiculous letter of no apparent worth and looked in the upper right hand corner. There, a little "f" had been written and Weatherby felt a cold weight settle in his chest. Slowly, carefully Swann took the letter and held it close to the lamp. It never failed to impress him the technology at their disposal, and he watched with morose pleasure as faint brown words began to emerge between the lines of the farcical letter.

_Lieutenant Groves, I will be frank. I have a business proposition for you, one that I believe that you will find most advantageous. If you should have any interest, I am available for contact. Captain Hector Barbossa_

---

Will stared into the fire of the forge, watching the metal turn into a bright red glow. He had done this for years now, and could read the minute differences in temperature and when the sword was done.

News had come that day that Mr. Josiah Brown was to be thrown in debtor's prison and all his effects sold, including the forge. Will desperately wished he had some money to buy the place, but there was none to find. Furthermore he wasn't about to run to anybody like some errant schoolboy who needed another sweet. Not Weatherby, not Jack. He was determined to make it on his own, although Will had to admit that his prospects at that point did not portend well. The money he had made went to pay for feed for the mule, for the equipment and more importantly for Elizabeth.

Elizabeth. Perhaps it was too much of a shock to Elizabeth. For eight years they watched each other from afar, still retaining their childlike curiosity and admiration for each other. Will spent his days in the forge patiently working on his swords whereas Elizabeth learned dances. Consumption was more of a theoretical concept than a reality. She had known a few people with such afflictions, but was removed promptly before she could see anything unpleasant.

To Will, there would always be Elizabeth. She had shown him a realm of kindness and understanding that he had never witnessed before. But as for Elizabeth, he wasn't sure. After the pirate attack, something changed in her. It was as if she was lost in herself. Elizabeth no longer carried herself with the amount of pride or confidence she had so long ago. As if she didn't know who she was any longer.

Glumly he had accepted the fact that he would have to apprentice for yet another person of less than equal worth. Aimlessly raking his hand through his hair, he was startled by a knock at the door.

Will stood up and straightened his jacket and briefly entertained the idea that it might be Elizabeth. He was quickly dismayed by the appearance of Mrs. Norrington at the door of the forge. Will fought a wave of distaste and tried his best at a cordial invitation. The woman had been nothing but rude to the people of Port Royale since her arrival and Will especially bristled at the comments she had made about Elizabeth.

She walked into the forge hesitantly and Will stared at her. Mrs. Norrington wore a plain dark cloak but Will could see delicate, mud caked shoes peeking out from under the folds. He raised an eyebrow questioningly but said nothing.

She cleared her throat and started. "Mr. Turner, let us dispense with the formalities. I come here to request your assistance. I would like for you to design new locks for the estate. As you know, it is quite dangerous now and I require for myself and the staff- and, and the slave quarters as well. Money is as usual at your discretion."

Will's ears pricked at the last sentence, and he cursed himself. He did not want her charity, he did not need pity money, no matter how much it was. Will wanted to do things on his own, earn things independent of Governor Swann and everyone else who pitied the "blind bastard."

He had to do it, he had to ask her why. "Mrs. Norrington, why is it that you've come to me? If it's pity, I won't take it."

Charlotte huffed in the most undignified manner, and Will reconsidered his choice of words. Her chin lifted imperceptibly. "Mr. Turner," she absolutely spat, "I do not pity you in any sense of that word. You still have your wife, you can still make things right. I have nothing.

"I come here because my husband once remarked to me upon my arrival to Port Royale that you were one of the few true gentlemen that could be found here. James certainly admitted your differences in temperament and discretion, but he respected you. Until you give me reason to do otherwise, I will follow my husband's example."

Will nodded numbly, slightly taken aback by her response and the opinion of the late Commodore. There was only one man in his recollection that possessed green eyes and he opened his mouth, to tell her about the mysterious man at the funeral, but thought better of it.

"Very well, Mrs. Norrington." He bowed politely.

She nodded, a faint smile playing on her lips. "I will send over the steward in the morning."

Charlotte Norrington turned to leave, and Will felt he had to ask. "Mrs. Norrington?"

She turned and raised an eyebrow.

He had made it that far, so he might as well continue. "You visited my wife a few days ago, concerning your late husband and- and I was wondering what was said?"

Charlotte looked at him closely, his fidgeting hands playing with the muzzle of the mule, the pained expression on his face. There could be only one meaning to what he asked. She opened her mouth and then paused before continuing. "Mr. Turner, do you love her?"

He tilted his head in confusion. "Very much so."

She nodded, satisfied. "Then I wouldn't worry."


	19. Chapter 19

Author's Note: Reviews would be most appreciated.

As the sun dipped low in the horizon, James quietly picked his way to the outskirts of the city. He struggled to pick some errant strands of hay out of the old jacket of his. True it was abominably hot with the thing on, but James felt like that extra layer of cloth afforded him some level of protection, an extra layer of removal from everyone else.

It had been dangerous for him to stay on the estate as long as he had, but he didn't have anywhere else to go. James had kept to the very back of the estate, a hard journey for anyone who attempted it and in a location few people knew of. He had somewhat grudgingly taken Murtogg and Mullroy with him, mostly out of the fact that no one else would. Mullroy had not gotten any better, and as it turned out Murtogg was a rather poor nursemaid. They needed supplies, fresh clothing for the man and something to bind up his wounds.

James frowned and stroked his uneven stubble. He had never attempted a beard before and found it was a bit difficult. It was insufferable really. His face itched from his damned beard, and the coat he wore was a good deal smaller on him than he could remember. The fabric at the shoulders tore and the sleeves fell just inches short of his wrists. And there was a strange smell to the coat that he didn't remember before, something flowery like lavender. Perhaps Mrs. White had been cleaning again.

It had been an old coat of his, long ago when he first arrived at the island. He remembered he kept a few spare clothes at the mills and hoped for something that would fit Mullroy. He hadn't been too successful, but he resolved that something had to be better than nothing. When he had stole into the entryway where he kept his clothes, he couldn't help but take something for himself, because quite frankly he smelled something odious.

A sense of grief had washed over him as he walked through the emptied mills. Perhaps it was death after all. What was death, but the absence of life? James's life had been the sea, fighting, the deep thunder of the cannon as it rolled through your chest, but also his mills, his land. A quiet refuge that few ever visited. He crept wistfully through the buildings, taking in the scents, the warmth of the animals, everything.

Affectionately, he walked up to one of the pillars of the stable and placed a hand on it. The first building he had built on the island, after he had just made the crossing from the Atlantic. He had still been recovering on the crossing from England, with the Swanns and looked forward to the warmer climate to ease the pain and stiffness. He found that working his shoulder every day made it considerably better, and determined that he needed a stable at his new plantation.

During the Battle for Quebec, or rather battles, he received a ball through his shoulder. It tore through the front and blew out the back. Subconsciously at the memory he touched his shoulder, still feeling the large scar that had formed during recovery. The wound itself hadn't been so severe in itself, and the ball had made a clean exit, but the infection that took root was disastrous. He remembered very little of what happened in the months after, but found himself in London recuperating. The war was winding down and he knew that he would not see action again, at least in that arena.

General cessation had still not been declared, and there was some fear that the theater of war might move to the rich islands of the Caribbean. So James was assigned to the _Dauntless_ and the Caribbean. He remembered on the crossing the wreckage from Barbossa. It had been the first time he heard of the man, and he was not impressed. The pirates of the Caribbean made a lucrative business of attacking ships, merchant and otherwise. But they severely threatened the political stability, the tentative truce between countries. Their work was easily bought by whoever gave them money, and difficult to track down the actual source of the gold.

He remembered his overly zealous comment to the then young Miss Swann and smiled at his naïveté. The war had been his first true taste of battle and it left him with a sense of sadness. So many of his friends had been killed or injured, and one of the Midshipmen, Gillette was still in the process of being bartered back.

James sobered at his reverie and continued on to the cemetery, slightly ashamed at the time he had spent reminiscing.

---

Complements of one Mr. Turner, he had never been able to do what he intended to do the day of the funeral and he fully intended to rectify the situation. James fumbled in one of the jacket pockets and his fingers brushed a small gathering of flowers he had hastily collected on his walk there.

He cast a wary glance over his shoulder, as if expecting someone to leap out from one of the grave markers. A vague smirk played on his lips as he chastised himself for being so ridiculous.

Approaching the grave marker in question he felt a shiver roll down his spine. Drawing his jacket a little tighter he knelt down, eye level with the large NORRINGTON etched in stone.

"Well old friend," he started softly, "you have the largest, grandest plot of all. You have my wife to thank for that, you know. Well, at least I think she's still my wife, but I digress."

James looked up at the large moon hanging low on the horizon, just starting their own journey that night. He aimlessly touched the letters, his letters. It was he who was supposed to lie there but he was not, by some great intervention of Providence.

Clearing his throat he started again, "Well at least you have a rather good view of the bay, and a bit of the town too. Did you see all the people who turned out that day? Even you my friend, a true child of Bacchus, of Liber would have enjoyed it."

Solemnly he laid the flowers down at the base and he flashed a wry smile at the stone. "Don't worry, I haven't come to win over your heart, old boy. These are for someone else."

He took care arranging the flowers, and noted that they were already loosing some of their brilliance. He looked down at the flowers, trying to still his rapidly beating heart. Feeling foolish his fingers played with the petals, while he collected his nerve.

"I-I don't know if you can hear me, I'm not as religious as I used to be. But if you're out there, I wanted to ask a favor from you. I know I'm not in a position of favors, but I thought I might try anyway. I'm not here for any favors for myself. Lord knows I shouldn't be here as it is, and I'll keep my word I'll clear your name, all the names.

"But it's about Charlotte. She needs someone to look after her. She's new and I think somewhat scared…"

A slow, steady blush crept up from his neck to his cheeks and he felt the heat of the flush on his cheeks. He felt silly, talking to a piece of rock. It was a vain attempt but he had felt compelled to at least try.

He still remembered their first meeting. It was just a few days after the whole fiasco at the battlements and he was preparing to depart to the waters around Tortuga when there was a knock at his door.

James hid his shock well when his sister Catharine sauntered through the door, quickly followed by Miss Charlotte Hyde. She had walked up to him haughtily and with a sniff of disdain, offered her hand. He bowed formally and Catharine introduced them to each other.

He vaguely remembered hearing about her family through his sister. How she had reveled in hearing of the family's plight. Catharine Norrington hadn't always been that way. At one point, she had been his closest friend. But eventually her father had gotten to her, convincing her that wealth and status were the most important things.

In that sniff however he detected something - fear. She was afraid, afraid of being weak, of her family's weakness. James found something in that touching, and some instinct inside of him welled up and he felt an obligation, a feeling of protectiveness overcome him.

"Forgive me, friend. I don't want to sound callous here. I'll clear up this mess."

---

They were gathered in the parlor of the Turner's new residence although ironically enough neither one was present. Dinner had been a laborious affair for Charlotte. There was a heavily discernable tension between the parties present, and she had wondered why Weatherby had gathered such a group of people who so decidedly did not want the others company.

It had all started merrily enough, but soon soured. Mr. and Mrs. Turner sat at the ends of the table, locked in a battle of wills. One would dart their eyes forward, lancing the other, before quickly averting their gaze to something else. The other in indignation would retaliate with increasing irritation. Then they would insert an outraged huff, or nose flare as they fascimilated a conversation.

While cursorarily amusing, it continued throughout the night. Swann tried to mediate the situation, but he was in an ill humor himself with his gout as well as his own irritation with the Turners. Additionally Elizabeth had thought to invite some of the officers of Fort Charles, including Captain Hannum and the soon to be Captain Gillette. But they too were at odds with each other as well as the Governor.

Charlotte desperately wished to leave, and was only too happy for the dinner to end. Mrs. Turner begged leave of the rest of the company, feigning headache and Mr. Turner soon followed. Casting a weary eye at the retreating couple, Weatherby summoned the rest of the group into the parlor, including Charlotte. Perhaps there had been a purpose after all to the night.

In the somewhat smallish parlor, Charlotte felt the crush of the blue uniforms around her. She felt out of place, her dark dress against the gaudy decorations of the parlor and looked toward Gillette. He however seemed to be muttering something to Hannum rather forcefully, and his eyes darted to Weatherby.

The Governor however, caught the gaze and his face darkened. He slowly made his way over to Charlotte and began to talk in a low voice, his dark brown eyes fixing her with an unwavering gaze.

"Mrs. Norrington, I fear I have some more bad news for you today."

His voice, she noticed grew imperceptibly louder with each passing syllable. Heads that had been bent in conversation now jerked upright, turning in their direction. She looked into Weatherby's dark, unwavering gaze and saw his eyes dart for just a moment in their direction.

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth and he continued, at the same volume as before. "A letter was found amidst Lieutenant Groves's effects, an offer of alliance between the Lieutenant and the pirate Barbossa."

She narrowed her eyes in confusion and looked to Weatherby. Her mouth opened to ask the one question on her mind, but she halted as there were others in the room. Weatherby however, raised his eyebrow in silent prodding.

"W-How can this be, Sir? I do not know of this Barbossa other than what others have told me, but surely he would not openly write a letter to a Lieutenant of His Majesty's Navy, nor would a Lieutenant keep that in his possession surely?"

Weatherby beamed in satisfaction, but tempered it as the others began to edged closer. "It was not openly written, Mrs. Norrington. It was written between the lines in a special ink that only reveals itself with heat."

She sat there with her eyes furrowed. Why was he telling her any of that? Why should she be privy to such sensitive information, as well as technique?

Weatherby was watching her, and the officers moved forward in curiosity. "I tell you this because I felt that in light of the efforts of James," he paused bowing his head low in respect, and the rest followed suit. He looked up quickly, holding her gaze a moment, before continuing. "-in the investigation that I thought it would give you some measure of comfort, to _see, _to _know _what has come to pass."

His eyes flicked over once more to the small collection of naval officers before he left her company to talk to the Captain. It did not last long however, for they heard the distinct crack of a glass bottle breaking outside and bright orange flames lit up the night sky. With little thought they raced to the window and cast aside the drapes only to see a large, blue clad figure burning, suspended from rope to a newly implanted flagstaff in the commons area, which had been sardonically placed in front of Swann's intended second house, now Elizabeth's just days after James's death.

They looked on in horror at the blue clad figure, with crudely sewn on gold brocade on the coat and tricorn.

---

James had intended a quiet, inconspicuous walk back but unfortunately fate seemed to have a different task in mind. He walked through the eerie streets of Port Royale, all too aware of the unnatural silence. James dug his hands deep in the pockets of his coat, wishing he had something else other than his hatchet for defense. Curiously he drew out a delicate, white laced handkerchief.

Intrigued he sniffed it cautiously, taking in the scent of lavender again. _Charlotte._ That's who it was. But why was her handkerchief in his old coat?

He had no time however to ponder such questions, as he heard a loud commotion next to him, from over by the commons and a large burst of flames touched the night sky. People started pouring out from darkened alleys, taverns, homes and streamed forth to the blaze. James found himself unwittingly pushed and pressed against the bodies and he soon found himself standing before a large pole. They had strung up a flaming representation of a naval uniform, stuffed with whatever incendiary devices they could find.

People cheered and hooted as they watched the object burn, but James could only look on in horror as the name "GROVES" sewn in brocade slowly died in the flames.


	20. Chapter 20

Author's Note: Slightly shorter chapter here. Enjoy and review please!

The next morning brought an unsettling quiet within the town as people started about their day. Most had already heard of the mob the night before, and had seen the Marines response as well.

It was no Boston, and they sighed in relief.

A proclamation had been circulated throughout the island at first light by Governor Swann. In it Weatherby expressed his sorrow at the discontent of the city but resolved to find the culprits, but the violence had to stop. It was your usual per functionary document and he expected little to be gained from it, but business was business and he felt compelled to say something, lest he be viewed as weak.

Weatherby sat in his study that morning, looking over the papers Hannum had sent over already. It would seem that they would finally go pirate hunting. The trouble was that they were hampered by lack of ships and men. There was still mounting violence in Port Royale, and last night had underscored the severity of the matter.

He had not garnered much sleep the night before, and he could feel his patience wearing thin. Anger rose in his mind, anger and frustration at the present situation. They needed to catch the people responsible for the Barbossa attack as well as the other attack, but without enough men, the people left in Port Royale might take advantage of an "opportune moment."

The new butler opened the doors to the study with perhaps more force than necessary and Weatherby jumped.

"Mrs. Norrington, Sir."

Swann relaxed a bit and even smiled. He wondered why Mrs. Norrington was there so early that morning. His plan last night had failed, and there was no betrayal of emotion from any of the naval officers last night, but perhaps another part of the plan did not.

Charlotte was well acquainted now with the study and she graciously took a seat after the pleasantries were over. She looked over her shoulder toward the retreating figure of the butler before she exhaled. "I seek your advice this morning Governor, if you will permit me. You see, I have a question relating letters, words, to language I suppose."

"-_I thought it would give you some measure of comfort, to see, to know what has come to pass."_

Marvelous, simply marvelous. The woman was almost as smart as his Elizabeth- almost.

Charlotte looked down and started picking at an errant string on the hem of her cuff. "I _see_ with my eyes, they are my looking glass to the world. And with them I can _see_ things, such as say, words on parchment. Furthermore I _know_ that the words in question are only summoned by the addition of heat."

Swann had wondered if he had emphasized enough his words, and he was pleased to see that it was not lost on Mrs. Norrington. He smiled warmly, his wig bobbing strongly. "And your question, Mrs. Norrington?"

A wry smile formed on her face, and she spoke slowly drawing out her words with great tact. "I fear, Sir, that you have been remiss in telling me one important detail: whether or not the words were already on the parchment when it was found. For if the words were already there, then that would seem to incriminate Lieutenant Groves wholeheartedly. But if the words were not there, then that would mean that he never received the actual message when he was alive, which means that he could not have possibly committed this act."

Weatherby walked to the door slowly, his legs still stiff that morning, and tested the door. Satisfied, he made his way back to his chair. He studied his own hands, old and weathered before responding. "No Mrs. Norrington, the words had not been revealed."

She tilted her head in curiosity, her eyes moving back and forth in rapid contemplation. "But if that is the case, your Excellency, then you're sending the men on a false errand."

Weatherby felt a tug at the corner of his lips and he shrugged. "How so, Mrs. Norrington?"

She bowed her head a little in quick calculation and Swann was pleased to see that she had not forgotten that he was the Governor of Jamaica, that she would not recklessly blurt something out. She was learning.

"If it were true that Groves didn't receive the hidden letter, then Captain Hannum and Lieutenant Gillette are searching in all the wrong quarters."

Weatherby nodded slightly. Smart girl. If she had been a man, she could have gone places. "So it would seem, Mrs. Norrington."

Charlotte frowned, and looked down at her lap. "So you would willingly let them go on a false errand, knowing that they'll not find the answers they seek?"

He was in a familiar routine, and one that he'd had multiple times before, but with a different person. Weatherby looked up, almost expecting a bewigged, green eyed man to sit impatiently before him. But that man was gone, perhaps forever and a slight, blonde creature sat before him.

"Mrs. Norrington, we are all but mere principles in this world, working our way through our roles, our lines in life. As Governor of Jamaica, I must make a stand, I must make a move. I cannot sit here contemplating what to do. People want to see action, movement."

"You would do it even if it were wrong." She said softly, part question part statement.

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Quite frankly, we have no other choice. We have no other leads."

---

Will walked slowly through the streets of the sleepy town, weaving his way to the forge. He still simmered from dinner last night. How dare that man presume to set up a farcical dinner in _their_ supposed home for his own political purposes? The man thought that he could just breezily waltz in there and completely orchestrate a dinner in someone else's home? And Elizabeth, she had been too willing to comply. Was that how their life was to be, to be at the beck and call, the whim of one Weatherby Swann?

He neared the line of sight of the forge and he looked at it with a sense of repugnance. Upon his arrival in Port Royale, he had been granted clemency by Swann as well as work with the Blacksmith. It was nothing more than a strategic manipulation by Swann to be truthful.

_"Young Turner, you are a smart lad. Too smart, I believe, for manual labor. You've shown yourself capable of more than… this. I've watched you in particular these last couple of years. I spoke with the Commodore, and if you would agree, I could try to secure for you a spot as a Midshipman."_

Norrington had tried when Will was younger to pull him out of his situation. But even still at that age he could not imagine himself as an extension of the law, the Crown. Norrington as a Lieutenant and sometimes even a Captain would come to the forge to pick up various orders and he had seen the boy play with interest the various swords. It was Norrington who first showed Will how to correctly handle a sword, and he had been an eager student. Perhaps it was that act that gave Norrington a false sense that Will had any desire for the Royal Navy.

Approaching the door he saw faint wisps of smoke trail out through the cracks of the door. Quickly he ran to the door, kicking it open. Vainly he searched for a bucket of water, but the smoke was too thick so he headed for Betsy instead. She was desperate to escape, and Will was only too happy to comply with the irritable mule.

As they were leaving however, a large flash of an orange flame caught his attention, along with the unmistakable sound of coughing. Will made to go back inside when a figure stumbled their way out.

The poor girl was covered in soot, her face streaked with the mess, and her fawn colored locks in a tangled mess. She coughed some more and tried to cover her mouth with her hands, but it was difficult as she still clutched a half empty bottle of what appeared to be some of the rum Jack left on his last visit.

"Elizabeth?" Will asked incredulously, as he helped pick her up.

She gave him a pathetic nod and coughed again. Will offered her some of the rum to quell the coughing, and it seemed to relieve it somewhat.

"How? What?"

Elizabeth looked down, her head bowed, a position that Will had rarely seen on her. "I-I wanted to come here and surprise you this morning, somehow amend things. But the forge fire was reduced to coals, and so I decided to build a fire."

Will looked dubiously at the rum bottle. "With rum?"

She gulped and nodded. "It was the only way I knew how."

He couldn't help it. It started slowly, like a quiet chortle but he couldn't contain his mirth for much longer. She flashed him a practiced look of annoyance but this only made him laugh harder. Will turned back to the forge briefly, thankful that the smoke was clearing out of the place.

Looking over at Elizabeth, her singed eyebrows, soot stained cheeks, Will felt perfectly at ease. This was the Elizabeth he was familiar with, the one he fell in love with. Catching his gaze, the annoyed look cracked, her brown eyes warmed and she let out a giggle. Collapsing, colliding rather with his shoulder she let out a snort and handed him the rum bottle.

In that one act, that one highly unladylike gesture, melted away months of frustration and useless arguing. Sitting on the steps of the forge waiting for the rest of the smoke to clear, Will and Elizabeth sat ready to face the day.


	21. Chapter 21

Author's Note: Feedback is appreciated!

Nathaniel and Charlotte irritably sat in the sweltering study, working their way through the copious documents that James had left them. He rubbed his eyes wearily, in frustration and wished he could take off his ridiculous wig. When he had been found, they had to cut his wig out which had fused with real hair from all the blood. As a result that idiot "doctor" on the ship ride back to Port Royale had determined to shave Nathaniel's head rather than do something useful, such as stem the blood loss.

Now he was bald, with a particularly uncomfortable wig and a headache. He had garnered precious little time that day to himself, but necessity demanded that he pay a visit to Mrs. Norrington and help straighten affairs.

"-don't you think?" He startled in mild horror as he realized that Charlotte had been talking, apparently for quite a while. She gave him one of her classic frosty glances, but it softened before the full effect was delivered.

"Nathaniel?" _Oh dear Lord, not this again._

He just raised an eyebrow and went back to his stack.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Slowly, he leveled his gaze with that of hers and tilted his head in question.

Charlotte was unmoved and she looked at him with a mixture of pity and remorse. He unconsciously bristled at that act; he required nor deserved neither of the two.

"I talked to some of the men, at the Fort the other day when I was looking for you." she started slowly, playing with the corner of the letter before her. "Nathaniel, I'm worried for you. You hardly slept any in the last few days, and quite frankly it does nothing to improve your looks. The men say that all you do is work from sun up to sun down. And furthermore, I've seen what they try to pass off as food there and I think today's Gazette had more substance than that."

At some point in the conversation Nathaniel leaned heavily on the desk, rubbing his temple vainly in an attempt to stop her. Or at least to stop hearing her incessant nagging.

"Charlotte, please. I'll be fine, it's just that there's an awful lot of work to be done and not enough men. We leave tomorrow to look for those pirates, although in retrospect it seems a somewhat flawed plan as we have no idea who exactly we are looking for. Furthermore we have complications here, people don't feel safe. You saw that burning, the mob. They're afraid."

"And you aren't?" she asked mildly.

He smiled at the question and ducked his head. "Afraid isn't the word I would use for it. I know what I have to do and there's something oddly comforting in that fact. Something definite, fixed in an ever changing world."

Nathaniel noticed he had started talking faster as the sentence wore on- a curious phenomenon that only seemed to happen around Charlotte. His ears starting burning as well, and he was sure that they were as red as an apple.

Charlotte leaned back in her chair and breezily swept a hand through some errant strands of hair. "You puzzle me, Lieutenant. Or shall I call you Captain?"

He tactfully ignored the last statement, and felt a sense of pride at even a minor control of the tongue. "Are you still trying to determine my character?"

"Vainly it would seem." She said, sighing dramatically. "There are too many layers for me to unravel."

He snorted and chuckled. "And what of yourself, Mrs. Norrington? You have proven yourself a veritable puzzle."

Her levity of just moments before faded, only to be replaced by an underlying sorrow that threatened to break through the surface of her clear blue eyes. "I was a horrible wife, wasn't I?"

Nathaniel shifted uncomfortably in his seat, a duel between his tongue and his mind. She took the discomfort, the elongated pause as an affirmation and lowered her head.

"I suppose that I've always been in search of a fight, of something to provoke me to defend some notion of honor for myself and my family. I've always fought up until this point but I never knew why. I never really had a reason to until now, until James. He was always fighting too, but he always had a reason, a belief of his that compelled his actions. I had none of that."

She looked away for a moment, to a great map pinned to the wall and something in that seemed to comfort her, give her some sort of hope. It was as if she were looking at something beyond the map, and she asked in a near whisper, "Who is James Norrington? Is he a real man, one of flesh and bones, like us, or is he just a figment of our imagination? A reflection of what we would like to see in ourselves?"

"Does it matter?" There. He had said it so easily, and yet it had such a decided effect.

Her blue eyes sharpened, and reflected something like hurt. "So you believe he's dead too then? But what about the eyes, Nathaniel. You swore that they were brown."

"I would like to believe."

She shook her head. "But you don't. Of all people, I thought that you would be the one to believe me, to encourage me. You're always stuck in the past, reminiscing about people, wars, events that no longer exist, yet you would willfully ignore what is in front of you."

Hard won, but so easily lost was the way of his temper and his ears began turning red again, but not from any discomfort such as previously. "And you Madam would rather believe in some fantasy, some sort of way that could absolve you of your own sins, of your own failures that you cannot move on."

"Really, Lieutenant?" she asked, with a triumphant tilt of her head, " I find it rather interesting that it is you who addresses me with the subject of moving on when you are so firmly lodged in the last decade that one would think that we were still fighting the French at Quebec."  
"You cannot change the present, Mrs. Norrington, for it is a product of our past. An action, a choice we made has a decided effect that sets into motion a chain of events. For example, when I pull the trigger on a pistol it sets into motion a series of events, where the firing pin hits the flash pan. Even if I were to regret pulling the trigger, it could not stop that action. It is fixed, determined."

---


	22. Chapter 22

Author's Note: I'm really bad at writing accents, so please forgive me. Feedback is always welcome, enjoy!

James subconsciously pulled his hair loose from his queue and wished for something more substantive for cover. The tavern was busy and rowdy with patrons too flushed with drink and a warm meal within their abdomens. He was sure they didn't recognize him; no one had up until that point, but he still felt naked somehow. It was a gamble to be sure, but it could have countless rewards. People flushed with drink would say anything, even the truth.

He had reluctantly left the estate that day. James had watched with admiration as she wove her way through the hills every day, taking a tour of a different part of the estate. He wondered what she thought about his mills, what he'd done with the place, even her slaves. But perhaps that day had past, and James turned his back to his beloved hills and made his way to the city.

It was too dangerous for Charlotte and the others if he were caught to be found there. In the city he would be able to evade capture further, and he would be closer to the rest of the men. Most of them had sought refuge in the darker quarters of the city where they could blend in easier.

James had looked for employment the last few days, and had finally settled on a larger tavern on the far side of town. Larger was better, he had determined, as there would be more people, more commotion in case he had to slip away. The owner was surprisingly a woman, Rachel Laurens. She struck him as smarter than average, and she was just a few years older than himself. Unfortunately, most women still found something foul in the idea of a single, relatively young woman running a tavern and they tutted and whispered whenever Rachel neared. James had been rather familiar with the place from his time in the Navy and he found some comfort in that fact. He was familiar with the place, and some of its more notorious customers. James knew which people to talk to and which people to avoid.

James scanned the room, but he wasn't there. James had furthermore secured for them a corner in the attic, where his "mute" brother and his recuperating friend would stay. It had cost him an awful lot of money, but it was his only recourse. James couldn't just leave Murtogg and Mullroy to fend for themselves. When in full health he thought them barely competent.

He hoped the man in question would come. James had always possessed a sneaking feeling that Sparrow and his crew were closer than he could prove, and now more than ever he wished it was so. There. The man had just arrived, sweeping a rough hand over his longish hair. James fumbled around in his pocket to hear the reassuring clink of coin. He would need whatever he had to gain that man's tongue.

He swaggered easily to a table in the very back of the room, away from the more conspicuous guests. He leaned back and James approached him with a tankard.

The man sat a moment, suspended in question. Finally, a wide, Cheshire grin broke through the enormous sideburns that eclipsed most of his face. _More badger than man_, James mused.

"Well 'ere's a face I ne'er thought I'd see again."

---

The sharp snap of the drum roll and the dull roar of cannon fire was what Nathaniel Gillette had wished to encounter that morning, but unfortunately that was not the case.

He limped his way through the streets of Port Royale, pointedly ignoring the stares as he worked his leg in a slow rhythm.

In the latest succession of questionable leadership to say the least the acting Commodore, Captain Hannum had left to hunt the pirates, leaving a disgruntled Lieutenant Gillette to supervise the people of Port Royale. The display of just a few nights previous had unsettled most people and Hannum had determined to leave a small contingent of Navy as well as Marines on the island.

_Why do we even have a Chain of Command when Hannum is determined to do everything himself? He delegates out the barest of duties, and then assigns himself to everything else. Hannum is going to be the Commodore of the Jamaica fleet, and here he is doing the duties of his other Chain of Command. _

The men accompanying him had sensed his sour mood and let him determine the pace, of which he was grateful as well as a little irritated. He normally would not concede such a blatant sign of his weakness, of his infirmity, but Nathaniel had to admit that today he would not have been able to keep pace of the others.

He breathed a sigh of relief and they turned about to make their way back to the Fort when they heard a scream. Instantly his hand flew to the hilt of his sword, and the men stood straighter, awaiting his word.

With a terse nod they took off in the direction of the noise. Gone was the stiffness in his leg, or the aches of his head. It was replaced by a coolness, a sudden rush of blood to his body. It cleared his head and everything began to blur. Actions became more of an afterthought than something committed.

A woman stumbled into the street, her hands firmly clasped over her mouth in shock. Tears rimmed her eyes and she reached out for Gillette.

Numbly pointing in the direction of the alley she started to shake. "They're- they're dead."

He looked at her with sadness and placed her in the care of one of the Marines while the rest of them pressed on. Quickly withdrawing his pistol and cocking it they proceeded.

In the dim light of the alley lay two men, their eyes wide with shock. There had been no time for the men to shout out or even attempt to fight, as someone had come up behind them and slit their throats. Just like that night on the Dauntless.

_Pirates._ Nathaniel grimaced unconsciously as he thought of them. Ruthless they were-every last one of them but effective too, he noted.

Some of the Marines trotted past him in a vain attempt to pursue the killers, but it was no use. The men had long since been dead, and whoever did this would have fled immediately.

Nathaniel secured his pistol and holstered it, before walking up to the men. His heart began to sink as he approached the men. Crouching before them he tilted his head to gain a better view.

It was them. Two of the missing men from the crew of the Dauntless lay in a pool of their own blood before him.

---

Charlotte walked up the simple steps to the forge, quietly drawing her cloak around her. News had quickly spread about the slain men, and their affiliation with the Dauntless and the city had adopted a tentative peace, but it was fragile. You could sense it, walking through the streets of Port Royale, the tension, the uncertainty in the air. People did not meet your gaze, they jumped at a sudden noise.

She did not normally like taking a carriage to the neighborhood the Turners now occupied as it created undue attention, but she suddenly wished she had taken it just this once. People of all classes speculated about Mrs. Norrington and Mrs. Turner, and the words passed between them. They eagerly waited for days such as this that necessitated a visit in hopes that another spat would ensue.

With the news of the men, Charlotte felt the inexplicable press of time. None of the avenues she had tried so far bore any signs of promise.

"_Mrs. Norrington, we are all but mere principles in this world, working our way through our roles, our lines in life. As Governor of Jamaica, I must make a stand, I must make a move."_

It was frustrating, infuriating really. The two men that could possibly help her were bound by separate but equally strong forces of state and military, and perhaps by their mutual avowal to dislike one another. She was sick of the bickering, of the sharp words, of the labyrinths one must traverse. Indeed, they were playing up to their roles, their lines but in the process it just confounded everything else. And now with the discovery of some of the missing men, Charlotte felt the urgency. Whoever was left was a marked man, and they held information that Charlotte needed.

Squaring her shoulders firmly before the great door of the forge she breathed in deeply. Rapping softly she jolted at the sudden movement of the door. It cracked open hesitantly and Will Turner sighed, relieved. Looking to his left and right, he quickly ushered her in, before sliding the great oak panel into place again.

"Mrs. Norrington, what a pleasant surprise, but forgive me. You should not be out today. Surely you have heard of the dead men."

She nodded glumly, the severity of the matter still soaking in. "Indeed, which is why I felt ever the more compelled to seek you out."

He nodded and made his way to a small table in the corner. Quickly he fetched a sheaf of paper and brushed an stray strand of hair away. "Mrs. Norrington, I'm working on the locks as we speak. I will have them done for you tomorrow, by the noon hour."

She nodded absentmindedly. "Why thank you, Mr. Turner, but that is not why I've come here today-"

"Who is it, Will?" Charlotte whirled around to see a dirty Mrs. Turner trot down the stairs. She was back in her blue garb, her hair loosely pinned back, and her eyebrows oddly singed. Elizabeth paused at the base of the stairs at the sight of Charlotte, and her features lost the playfulness, the lightness of previous. A frosty cloud breezed over her features and she shifted nervously.

Charlotte tried her best at a warm smile. She wished that Elizabeth could see that there was no malicious intent, no revelations. "I've come to ask you a favor. I would like to know where to find Captain Jack Sparrow."

Will and Elizabeth looked at each other nervously and Charlotte crossed her arms at her chest, waiting patiently. "I know you know where he is, or at least where some of his associates are. I am no on an errand by the Navy nor for any other parties. I seek my own answers."

They looked at her sympathetically but hesitantly.

She looked at them earnestly, and hoped that they would be able to discern as much. "Please, I will seek him out with or without you. But I would be deeply gratified if you would help me find him."

Will furrowed his brows, which ironically seemed to make his own eyes larger. "So you believe that the Commodore is still alive?"

Elizabeth looked from Will to Charlotte in disbelief, and her lips began to protrude in their usual haughty manner.

Charlotte nodded solemnly and flashed a wan smile. "Indeed I do."

Will looked at her, holding her gaze before nodding himself. "In that case, I have something to tell you."


	23. Chapter 23

Author's Note: Hollow quills were a device used around this time. If you go to the University of Michigan's website, I believe there they have a sample of one between General Howe and Burgoyne. Also spies in the 18th century frequently hid things in the soles of their boots. Enjoy!

Weatherby stood at the window of his study, looking out at the gardens before him. Two men from the _Dauntless_ found dead, their bodies dumped unceremoniously in an alleyway. The soles of the boots had been ripped open crudely by knife, and whatever secrets had been hidden within were now lost to the pirates. They were out there still, and nearby from all accounts.

His hands flexed in anger and frustration as he started to pace. How was it that they had eluded capture for that long, and why hadn't his informants found them out?

Huffily he picked up his quill, but instead of placing it in the inkwell, he held it up to the light, and probed until he felt the slightest hint of parchment. Delicately he teased out a tightly rolled strip of parchment.

_Rumored in Tortuga that Barbossa still has friends._

---

She rode easily down the familiar path, watching the sun extend its rays over the entire town, bathing it is gold. Charlotte had never gone to the estate so late in the day before but she knew that if she did not go now, there was little chance she would be able to later.

It was hot under her large cloak, but Charlotte still did not feel comfortable riding around in breeches no less, and at least this fabric afforded her some manner of protection. She patted her pocket to remind herself of her newly acquired weapon, a gift of sorts by Mr. Turner. It was short and hooked, blackened purposefully so it would be harder to see and encased in soft, supple leather.

She still knew woefully little about protecting herself but Charlotte was slowly learning, thanks to Jacomb and Paul. Charlotte looked over at the young man and smiled.

"I heard that you talked to the Turners, Ma'am." Charlotte shot a sidelong glance at the boy and wondered what Paul was getting at.

"There was a time, before I met the Commodore when I was an, ah, errant soul."

Charlotte raised an eyebrow quizzically and he blushed. "I came to know the Commodore after he caught me trying to steal his horse. I was a young child, no home, no family and I was hungry."

"Forgive me but a horse seems an odd choice in dining." She said, flashing a smile.

Paul chuckled and patted his horse affectionately. "Indeed. But I was hungry, and furthermore bored. As you could probably tell, it wasn't too successful. The horse was too tall, a beast really and I ended up getting kicked.

"The Commodore found me, cursing and bleeding but what could he do? Mr. White suggested that I work for them, and after a while the Commodore agreed. He said once to me that 'Idleness is the killer of man.' And so here I am."

Charlotte looked at the approaching buildings and mused, "He had a habit of taking in strays, didn't he? You, me, Lieutenant Gillette perhaps Port Royale as a whole."

She blushed and ducked her head, astounded that those words had passed from her lips. Paul sensed her discomfort and laughed easily.

"Indeed he did. Which brings me to my point, Ma'am. If you're going to talk to pirates and other people of shall we say questionable moral fibre, do you know how to find them, talk to them?"

_How on Earth did he know her intentions?_ "Mr. Stevens, how did you come about this information?"

He shrugged. "What can I say, but that there are many people ear's piqued when you and the Turners gather. It's just a vague rumor, I wouldn't worry too much."

Charlotte smiled at his obvious attempt to reassure her and she was about to speak when he continued. "I suppose what I'm trying to say is that I think that I should go instead. I know these people, I know how to handle them too, if they've imbibed too much of drink."

She had to confess that he had a good point. "Very well, Mr. Stevens, but could I come with you?"

---

"I would, but I have the promotion ceremony to attend that day." She responded, eyeing the pistol with a fair amount of trepidation.

Jacomb smiled and chuckled. "Ah yes, Lieutenant Gillette becomes Captain, no? Well that's good, I'm glad. He's been passed up over the years, he deserves it. The Master and the Governor fought over that for a spell."

He handed over the polished weapon to Charlotte and she was surprised by the weight of the pistol. Patiently Jacomb helped her load it and watched as she took aim.

"No, Ma'am. Both eyes open. Do you sew with one eye closed? Well then don't shoot with one eye closed." He swiftly arranged her fingers more comfortably as she stood, readying herself.

"Why did they fight, might I ask?"

Jacomb paused a moment, reflecting. "Lieutenant Gillette didn't have any family background, no connections to help his career. People like Groves did. Gillette is a good leader, especially in battle. But he doesn't have any backing from anyone who could help him any longer, now that… well you know. His tongue gets him into a fair amount of trouble, but I suppose if I were him I couldn't blame him. He should have been promoted a couple of years before, but that went to some dandy whose uncle or something was in Parliament. And then later, he ran into a bad streak of injuries. He was in the sick wing for a lot of this last year. It drove him crazy, it did.

"Now relax your shoulders, and breathe in deep. Fire when ready."

She nodded sympathetically to Gillette's plight as she too had seen her fair share of politicking on the army end of things. Charlotte pulled the trigger, and was surprised at the volume of the report, and the kick of the gun.

Jacomb stood analyzing her, his arms crossed over his barrel chest. "Mmhm. You blink, which is bad business with guns, but that'll go away with time. Remember, both eyes open. And for heaven's sake, quit holding it like it was a leper."

She had to smile at the last comment, and Charlotte began to pour in some powder. Somehow her father had made this seem so much easier, and she chuckled at the thought of her friends and family acquaintances seeing her now, dressed in her husband's breeches, vainly trying to load a pistol.

"Uh alright. Maybe you should just stick to that first shot. A good shooter can get maybe 3 or 4 shots in within a minute, loading and all. We'll ah, have to work on that. I'd tamp that down further, good."

It was pointless. He was right, she'd have to get off a good first shot and then rely on luck.

"Well Ma'am, I think you have the basics on how to shoot a pistol. Tell that idiot butler of yours that he's not to admit anyone he doesn't recognize. Keep some guns loaded near the foyer. Remember, if anything should happen, start screaming. Someone'll hear and they'll have to find help. If the worst should happen, take that knife Turner gave you and start hacking."

Such was the life now in Port Royale.

---

Nathaniel walked into the warm study stiffly. He would be there only a moment, bid her good bye and then leave, closing the door on an avenue of life neither of them could afford.

It had come on so gradually, he hadn't noticed it at first. But that flush on his cheeks, the stammering, the discomfort, he couldn't endure it any longer. It was wrong. She had married one of his best friends, and there was something sacred in that which Nathaniel feared.

Charlotte rushed up to him, a wide smile on her face, eager to make amends for her words the other night. Nathaniel looked wistfully into those wide eyes, the color of the Caribbean Sea and he wished he could reach out just once, brush that stray wisp of hair that always fell across her brow. Those eyes still so trusting, so earnest. He wished he could protect that look in her, but he feared that fate would not be so kind to any of them.

She pleasantly beckoned him to sit as she made her way over to the tea service.

"No, Charlotte please. I cannot stay long." _Good start, now just finish it quickly. Be cold, detached, unemotional._

Charlotte furrowed her brow and looked at him with mild curiosity. "Is there something the matter?"

He drew in a deep breath, summoning whatever inner strength he possessed. "I've come here tonight to tell you that I've transferred over all my duties as overseer of your estate to Governor Swann, effective immediately."

It was like a slap to her face, and he watched her features fall, the levity crushed under a wave of sadness. "If this is about the other night, I didn't mean to hurt you Nathaniel. I didn't mean what I said. I was angered, and my words came out too forcibly. I'm sorry."

He reached out before even registering the movement, and his hands rested lightly on her shoulders. "No, it's not that at all. It's too dangerous Charlotte. People are dying again, and I fear that perhaps more will follow soon. Captain Hannum has placed me in charge of the search, and I won't have the time to help you. And there's also a very good chance that something might happen to me in the process."

She shook her head slowly, her eyes misting over despite her attempts to blink it away. "No, not you too Nathaniel. Is everyone around me to die, to leave me?"

Swallowing painfully, he croaked. "No, no it doesn't have to be. But you must give up this investigation Charlotte. This isn't some parlor game, or a discussion at some afternoon salon. I must seek them out, and show all who did this the noose. But until I can, it's too dangerous. Hannum will, God willing, intercept the pirates. But I can't guarantee that Charlotte.

"Promise me Charlotte, that you will give up this search. Promise me?" His eyes darted from one eye to the next, taking in her every detail.

She started to blink rapidly and shook her head. He couldn't help it, that look of sadness of utter isolation cracked whatever resolve he had left. Gently he wrapped his arms around her and looked down into her shining eyes. With a tender hand he brushed away that stray lock of hair, and his head tilted just slightly. His eyes met hers and they froze.

Charlotte backed away slowly. "No, I'm sorry Nathaniel. I cannot do as you wish, for any of this. If I give up on this investigation, then I give up on James. He always believed in me, and I must repay him that debt."

If there were ever a moment to walk away, this would be the "opportune moment." Unfortunately he stood there transfixed, dumbfounded at what was happening and no matter how hard he tried, he could not compel his feet forward, away.

"As long as I think he's still alive, then I'm still his wife. You're right, you know. I am clinging to some impossible notion, but that's what I believe- what I need to believe. And perhaps with enough time I might be granted clemency for what I have done, from whatever higher order there is."

He nodded, trying to salvage some self respect. "Indeed. Please forgive me, Mrs. Norrington, I fear I've overstayed my welcome. I shall send over whatever papers I possess in the morning."

Charlotte simply nodded, and looked away.

He bowed politely and walked to the door, firmly clicking it shut behind him. Taking in a quick breath he looked around one last time before walking out the front doors. It was over, it was done.


	24. Chapter 24

The moon dipped low in the night sky and Charlotte was restless. Throughout the night she had been able to track the progress of the moon from a lone silvery beam, transiting slowly down the expanse of the study, falling on a chair to her side. She looked at a vacant seat positioned next to the desk.

It wasn't the same without him. She missed his sarcastic comments, his witty responses. Nathaniel possessed a rare gift, one where he could assuage all her fears by clever anecdotes and quips. It took the edge off of sifting through her husband's effects, it steadied her hand, distanced herself from the violence, the harshness. He sat with her on countless nights after his duties at the fort were completed, helping her make sense of it all. Nathaniel had dutifully told her everything she wanted to hear about her husband, and she watched with horrid fascination as the men behind the façade, the brocade unfolded.

Did she love Nathaniel? Did she love James? What was love after all? Would she take after Weatherby, finding that sort of love that compelled him to reverently speak about his fallen wife year after year? Or would she defy society as Elizabeth had in the name of passionate love in all its forms, and face the repercussions? The problem was that she _could_ love. Gone was the necessity for money- she was a free woman in every practical sense that a woman was afforded.

_"If you should find a letter in James's effects with an 'f' in the upper right hand corner, you must alert me immediately."_

Love did indeed come in many forms, she reflected ruefully, but that was not enough. It couldn't save James nor any of the other missing men from the scathing indictment of what supposedly occurred. Charlotte refused to believe that James could have committed such an atrocity, but apparently others did not share her opinion. Or perhaps they could not.

Weatherby and Charlotte had not seen each other since the night with the mob, and she missed talking to him. He was always willing to talk, to impart his worldly wisdom. Swann reminded Charlotte of her father, his kindness and generosity to his friends, but also his expertise in politics.

_He must be lonely himself. _

She looked at her hands, noting how rough and tan they had become. Charlotte smiled pleasantly at the revelation. It proved to herself that she was doing something, that she was accomplishing at least something.

She stifled a yawn and shifted to another stack of papers. The letters of condolence were tiring, and despite their rank and status in society Charlotte still found it hard to pick up the quill and respond. What was she to say to them? Most of them were naval men and their families, of which Charlotte had the barest knowledge of. The most familiar were the brothers Howe, but that was mostly because she had met them around the time of Minden.

Succumbing to the warmth of the room she draped herself in the chair lazily and started the new stack. Correspondences mostly, and apparently James had stacked them in order of importance and she smiled at the thought. Even when it came to letters, he was ever the attentive.

_My Dear Son, _

_I am pleased to hear of your recent promotion to Commodore of the Jamaica Fleet and express my deepest regrets at my absence. As you know, shipping commerce does not recognize breaks. And that bastard Hancock has once again beat my sloops to port. Is there any way you could detain the man in the service of the Crown? _

_The reason however for my letter regards your mention of a wedding. You expressed your wish in your last letter to marry the Governor of Jamaica's daughter, Miss Elizabeth Swann. It would indeed be a fine match, if you were to achieve it, but I have determined that it would be impossible. I have it on good authority that Miss Swann does not hold you in any regard other than that of an older brother. Besides, that father of hers is such a boor and never once impressed me much with his intellect._

_I have therefore secured for you a bride. Her name is Charlotte Hyde, and her father was the esteemed General Hyde from the Battle of Minden. She lacks any money whatsoever, but her name in association with her father is a solid force that would do the family well. Her dowry consists of little more than a handful of slaves but I think it is an advantageous match. She will arrive shortly after this letter reaches you, if she has not already. Your sister and her husband will accompany Miss Hyde to Port Royale and the wedding, which I wish to be as expedient as possible…_

Charlotte sat dumbstruck at the letter and quickly resolved to put it away. She should not have seen it. Shifting the pile to a more inconspicuous location, a single scrap of paper fell to the ground. Curious, Charlotte picked it up.

_Give up the investigation now Norrington. Sparrow was lucky at the battlements, you would not be so lucky._

_---_

James paced wearily next to a smoldering fire.

_His jaw set in grim determination and he searched for anything to arm himself with. The steady roll of the Marine's drums resonated within his own heart and he licked his lips in anticipation. This was the moment. The moment where everything becomes clear and simple. There is no time to think, no time to question. To do so would be suicide. You become detached and simply do what it takes to survive. _

_They had been taken from the stern by the mystery ship and consequently the artillery was almost useless. The grappling hooks had been cast and they were being boarded. James nodded quickly to the men and they followed him up the stairs into the light. _

_Unfortunately before he could even begin to engage in the fight he was taken. Men grabbed him from behind and dragged him away, muffling his shouts as if they could be heard over the din. _

Two men dead. Two of the last remaining crew of the _Dauntless. _His men. A sort of quiet rage welled up from within and settled in his chest, his eyes narrowing and his nose flaring. They had nothing to do with it. Simply innocent men haplessly carried along in the course of events. He had pledged to them their safe return to their normal life, which for two of the men would never happen.

Murtogg angrily stoked the fire with a stick and threw on more palm fronds, coughing violently as the smoke whipped in his face. James ran a coarse hand through his hair, and fumbled with a parchment in his hands. It was well worn, creased and marked with soot and a fair amount of sweat.

"Murtogg." _No wait, his first name. _"Giles. I have here a short list of men from the roster of the _Dauntless._ I would have had more but I was, ah, interrupted. You and Mullroy need to stay here. Keep to the hills, and make sure that the Mistress doesn't see you, nor the steward. I don't want to cause undue worry.

"If something should happen, contact their family, their friends. Tell them what you've seen. They'll listen, they'll have to."

Giles's face contorted, and his eyes lowered in confusion and shame.

_You idiot. He's probably barely literate._

"Or perhaps you can seek out Mrs. Norrington if something happens. Tell her who you are, and I'm sure she'll do everything she can. Just-just make sure that she does not get hurt." He knew his words were true, she would do it. He had watched in growing admiration as she moved through the city and the island, championing words and efforts that fell on mostly deaf ears. James had seen the improvements she instituted at the estate, and could count how many nights he had seen lights in the study as he passed by.

The man looked at him with a grateful, perhaps even admiring smile and nodded. James frowned but quickly masked it under a wan smile. He didn't deserve praise nor any admiration. Thus so far he had accomplished nothing useful for the defense of his men. "But what of yourself?"

_They had dragged him forward, away from where the attention was. James watched in silent horror as the battle halted, and everyone turned to the stern of the ship. The boarders- pirates, had halted momentarily asking for Norrington. _

_A man at the stern of the ship had come forward, resplendently dressed in the full dress uniform of the King's Navy. His darker complexion had contrasted sharply with the snow white wig and tricorn, the polish of the sword glinting in the waning sun. The uniform was a bit large on him, especially in the arms but he carried himself well, even a bit cocky, and it went unnoticed. _

_Groves._

_"I am Commodore James Norrington, what is it that you want of me pirate?"_

_The pirate captain walked up to Groves and looked him up and down carefully. "I thought you were taller, Norrington."_

_Groves flashed him a wry smile. "And here I thought you were a mute."_

_The pirate affected a laugh. "You've been warned before, Norrington, and now your time has come." _

_A flurry of cutlasses and bullets rained down on Groves before he could even react. His face contorted and he fell where he stood. James moved to get up but they held him back._

He looked over his shoulder as he started for the city. "I must end this, by whatever means necessary."

_---_

Charlotte slipped into the cemetery quietly, unobtrusively as possible to escape the throngs of disapproving women who seemingly stalked her with their eyes even at that late hour. The study was too much, it was too stifling and she needed to get out, clear her head. Carefully she withdrew a small object from within the depths of her cloak. The gold flashed momentarily in a moonbeam, and she gently placed it on the stone.

_There James. Your wife is returned to you, safe and sound. _

Charlotte breathed in deeply and knelt at the marker, brushing away dead petals when her hand stopped.

A small gathering of flowers, half dead had been carefully placed at the base of the marker. They had been native flowers from the island, and had been there for some time. The brilliant colors that Charlotte had so adored had almost completely faded. But there was a flower that stubbornly clung to its pink hues. Curious, Charlotte delicately fingered the petals of the flower.

"_Tell me." He said, his green eyes deepening with mirth._

_She looked at him shyly and leaned back on her elbows. Charlotte had never been there before, but she automatically fell in love with it. It was high on the hill, and overlooked the bay. The wind was at best a light breeze, so that the scents of the native flowers pooled around them._

"_Tell you what?"_

_He chuckled. "Something. Anything."_

_She looked hesitantly at the man who would soon be her husband. Charlotte wanted to loathe him, to hate him. She was doing this for the money, plain and simple. He must surely know it as well, so why did he care?_

_Charlotte could see it now- she would return in style, luxurious silks and satins that would astound the neighbors. She would walk up the familiar steps graciously, and embrace her mother warmly. Her brother Charles would stand off to the side, useless as ever, but it would be acceptable. They would have their money, and he would be able to go back to doing nothing. Together they would walk the halls and rooms, making comments about improvements and new additions. They would have their home back again, their lives back. Gone was the shame of how her father had died, how they could barely find the money for a fitting funeral. _

_Charlotte remembered how cold his father had been when she first met him. His iron gray hair pulled back in the latest fashion and dressed resplendently. He looked her up and down with his watery gray eyes and nodded his approval. She barely heard the man as he prattled along, talking about his less than favorite son. He spoke in measured, terse words as blunt as a sword. His stern face did not crack, did not betray emotion, just continued in that cold detachment. _

_James Norrington would one day become that man, Charlotte resolved. Stern faced, clipped, unwavering. It would be best to kill all interest immediately before anything developed. _

_She realized with a blush that her mouth was open, poised to say something and that he was watching her with expectation. "The flowers. The native flowers here are nice."_

_He suppressed his disappointment in a polite smile and looked out to the bay. It was therefore much to her surprise when she awoke on her wedding day to bouquets of wild flowers._

And now the very same type of flowers were gathered in a place she frequented. No one else knew about their picnic, let alone what they talked about. No one but James. Charlotte stood and whirled about, her heart beat reverberating in her ears.

"James?"


	25. Chapter 25

Author's Note: Bit longer chapter for you all here. Sorry I haven't updated recently, I've been pretty busy, but here it is. Enjoy and review please!

---

"I don't know much other than the fact that these pirates are afraid. They're afraid that someone'll find them out. So they went out and killed them. But some survived, and now they're being hunted down."

Weatherby nodded slowly, and looked out the window idly. Another night filled with meaningless reports, obscure and unchanging. "Who is behind this?"

The dark haired man shrugged. "I can't glean that out of anyone. They say it's Barbossa, but if that had been the case, then it should have ended with his death."

_It is my opinion Sir, that the attack of the Black Pearl on Port Royale could not have been possible without additional knowledge and guidance. The aforementioned could only logically come from a man who's studied military warfare…_

Another riddle, another lead that proved less than desired. The man was right, it was Barbossa, but he wrote the likes of Lieutenant Groves for help. He could have written any number of men, so how could it be investigated without raising suspicion? Weatherby's eyes flicked to the man sitting before him.

The man fidgeted in his seat, and cleared his throat before continuing. "I would suggest however, that you grant whatever clemency you can to Jack Sparrow."

Weatherby frowned and suppressed a snort. _A veritable marked man, eh?_

"It all goes back to the _Black Pearl_ incident. Someone helped them out, and now they don't want to be found out. Jack Sparrow was against Barbossa the entire time, maybe there was more than one reason why Barbossa wanted Sparrow dead."

_Maybe there was more than one reason why our Navy boys wanted him captured. _

"It's also been noted that the one Lieutenant, the one with his picture on the bills, spent a lot of time in the taverns before the attack on the _Dauntless_, but they don't know why"

The man sat there, looking at Swann expectantly and Weatherby felt his senses prick. This man was a spy, and although it was for a good purpose he still could not suppress a slight feeling of loathing for the man. He had a full complement of spies at his hand, and how easy it would be to sell such valuable services. Weatherby wondered how strong his loyalty was, or rather where exactly did it lie.

"That will be all. Contact me when you have something… useful."

---

A cold weight had settled into her chest, one that she could not dispel for the life of her. Her heartbeat resounded in her ears, growing faster and faster, louder and louder. Ever since the night at the cemetery she walked about as if on tenterhooks. She laughed ruefully at herself, for letting the dark night play on her emotions, her wishes. It would not happen again, not tonight.

Charlotte looked about anxiously, feeling completely out of place in her new surroundings. The outfit that Paul had secured for her was something that Charlotte could only assume was picked up off a tavern wench in the famed Tortuga. Her hair was piled up lazily, and she wore rouge for the first time although she hardly needed it, the shame creeping up on her cheeks, making them a pronounced red. Paul shot her another disapproving glance. Ah yes. Women of her "sort" weren't ever supposed to be ashamed, they were supposed to flaunt it.

_Could one of the people in this tavern been responsible for the attack? _Charlotte looked around, as if the guilty face would be marked somehow. Paul looked over at her impatiently and she shuffled forward haughtily. Together, they wove their way through the crowds to the back corner.

"He's a member of the crew, Gibbs I think. Try to befriend him." He leaned in and muttered.

"_Befriend_ him?" She paused, and shot him a withering sidelong glance.

Paul blushed as he tried to explain in a manner befitting his mistress. He started gesticulating, but that only seemed to confuse Charlotte more. "Well I don't know how you women do it. You know, be _friendly_ to him."

At that moment she truly considered wringing Paul's neck, but they were acutely aware that they were being watched by the man in question. Gibbs turned out to be an older man, ruddy in cheek and a face that betrayed a certain joviality. Charlotte took this as a sign and tried to smile at him becomingly, but he only regarded her suspiciously.

"We're looking for Jack Sparrow. Do you know him, Mr. Gibbs?" Charlotte looked at young Paul, his high forehead and distinguished nose giving him an added severity to his tone.

Gibbs smirked at the young man, and his Cheshire grin unfolded. "That be Cap'n Sparrow to ye."

Stevens smiled pleasantly, his violet eyes mild and apparently unassuming. "My apologies, Mr. Gibbs. We were wondering where we might find _Captain_ Jack Sparrow."

Charlotte watched with trepidation as she saw the man's face falter just slightly, betraying a certain loyalty and uneasiness that made her worry. Inching closer to the man, she tried to arch her back a bit and pout as she'd seen Elizabeth do before. Gibbs eyed her warily, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips.

Paul was losing patience however, and somewhere in the depths of a pocket she could hear the firm jingle of change.

"We seek your help." Paul leveled his eyes with the man, fixing him with piercing violet eyes.

Clink. A small spray of gold skidded across the table in front of Gibbs.

She saw a slight ember of suspicion ignite from Gibb's eye, but he quickly averted his gaze.

Paul leaned forward on the table, and his voice lowered silkily. "We care naught who you are, or what you've been doing. We're looking for Captain Sparrow. We need information about James Norrington. Or the people responsible for the attack."

Clink. The spray turned into a wave that washed up to Gibbs's fingertips. He was not moved however, and placidly folded his arms across his barrel chest.

"_Jesus, that's the third one. Does the man have gold balls o' summat?" _It was so quiet, so firmly uttered underbreath that Charlotte thought she was mistaken at first, and she jerked her head at Gibbs. He had recovered his tongue and sat there seemingly uninterested.

"I've got more'n enough money, boy."

Paul sat up straighter and lifted his chin. Charlotte edged forward as well, afraid that Stevens would utter something regrettable in light of the injury Gibbs served him.

He looked down at his hands a moment, composing his words before looking up. Paul smiled, imitating that Cheshire smirk. "Oh yes, _you _do. So does _Captain_ Sparrow. But not all the treasure is in silver and gold, eh? Revenge is often a sweet substitute, no? Do you see where I'm going with this?"

Gibbs narrowed his eyes, and his jaw set in a hard line.

Paul leaned back and smiled pleasantly. "Ah good, we have an understanding. For you see, all I have to do is whisper to the Governor that I think its Captain Sparrow. They don't care who it is, they just need a head to stick in the noose, y'know. Now personally, I've got to admire Captain Sparrow and his daring. But that's not what's going to save him this time."

"We keep to the code, 'ere." Gibbs responded nonchalantly, and in turn took a small nip from his tankard.

Paul had rose and sat himself leisurely on the corner of the table, pretending to pick at a scab. "I think not. We were there at the battlements. Didn't look like much of the 'code' there. So tell me, d'ya think _Captain _Sparrow is a dangler?"

Charlotte watched, enraptured in the perverse conversation. That man, Gibbs certainly held some notion of loyalty and his sideburns bristled at the comment. Paul leaned forward, suddenly all angles rather than the leisure he had previously exhibited. He grinned mischievously, his violet eyes sparkling with a canine appetite. Charlotte shuddered slightly to think what would have become of the boy had James not taken him in.

"So are you ready to talk, pirate?" He asked silkily, toying with a gold piece idly.

Gibbs took a long swig from the tankard and slammed it down in finality. "Listen 'ere. Cap'n Sparrow's gone. 'e figured someone would try somethin' an' e's gone. 'n you two couldn' fool anyone. This ain't no game, kids."

Charlotte dropped all pretence and grabbed his sleeve. "Who were the others? Who else came to you?"

Gibbs looked at her strangely, and his lips flattened into a straight line.

"Mrs. Turner hopes you've changed your mind about women on ships, even miniature ones." It was something from the deep recesses of her mind- a nearly forgotten conversation, and she was grasping at straws, a last vain attempt to secure some sort of trust.

He frowned still but sighed. "Snotty redhead no more convincin' than you an' a dark haired bloke. Now leave before you catch the wrong person's eye."

---

James sat on the back steps to the tavern, playing with the miniature in his hand. The moon was large that night, and seemed so close one could touch it. It was a warm night, telling of the upcoming season and the probable hurricanes with it. He had returned to the cemetery after everyone had retired for the night or otherwise passed out. It had become a habit of his to go there when he was frustrated, and it came as a great shock when he found his wife there. Well, the miniature of her at least. The gold reflected sharply against the milky beams of light and he gently touched the portrait.

_Did she understand, did she know he was still alive? If he were to see her, would she run up to him and embrace him or would she just stand there?_

He snorted to himself and chuckled. It was ridiculous. He was dreaming, thinking of things so far away from present that he was in danger of never returning to that life.

The remaining men were still buried deep within the more infamous parts of the city. They had all decided to take the risk and remain where there were more people for they would still be afforded some anonymity. Murtogg and Mullroy were still in the hills, and he had stopped by their old campsite with a small package of willow bark a few days past for Mullroy. He was slowly recovering, but James did not like his progress. Truthfully James feared the man's death.

Months had passed and James was still no closer to the identity or identities of the people in question. Furthermore, in a few days a promotion ceremony would be held and a new Commodore officially installed.

James ran a hand through his long hair, a light brown now thanks to the unmerciful sun. A few days past, James caught a reflection of himself in a water bucket and could scarcely recognize himself. His hands and arms were rough and tanned, displaying fierce pink and white slashes from various scuffles and accidents and his face was in large part obscured by a craggy beard, dark and uneven.

He had talked to that man Gibbs the other night. A good man for the most part, but too fond of the drink, which would explain his absence from the Navy. It was no secret to James the loyalty Gibbs observed for his Captain, Sparrow and James needed to talk to the famed pirate. He knew that Jack Sparrow, for whatever his crimes, could not be complicit in the attacks. From what James knew of Barbossa, a large fault developed between Sparrow and himself and for ten years hence they fought to frustrate the other.

The left flank had fallen the night of the attack on Port Royale. Cannon had been trained on the city and a flank attack ordered. _Those weren't standard pirate practices. _They were well thought out, planned and orchestrated. Pirates normally just blindly hacked away until either they fell or their enemies did. James was left on the battlements that night, shouting out orders to gun crews where he should have been at his headquarters, receiving reports from scouts and messengers, from the few small "detachments" if you will, of men that the Crown had afforded him. _He should have been able to see everything that went on. _

In the dark, amidst the rolling fog and the jungle which the men encountered the pirates, they were no match. The pirates kept to more than 100 yards away from them. They somehow knew. That was the critical point where muskets became useless. It was considered average if a tenth of the men fell after the volley, but when you had a few scared men in the fog opposing pirates with cannon it quickly eroded their confidence. _The pirates recognized the orders, the commands as the line was called to. _

All so well thought out, all so well planned that it was over before they had even started. So much disorganization and panic at the military end. It was a foe that knew their secrets, their battle maneuvers. But where?

It had to be a military man or someone connected with the military. He had briefly considered some woman in a lover's tryst willing to sneak a training manual or something of that nature, but he dismissed it just as quickly. The actions made by the pirates were too complicated to learn straight from a manual, supposing that they could read which he very much doubted.

With that concluded, that left James with the possibility of practically every man in Port Royale. It could start with a midshipman on up, even he supposed, to the Governor himself. James felt a tinge of remorse and guilt lance through his heart. These were all men he implicitly trusted, men he had worked alongside and to suppose that one of them was the traitor was unthinkable and yet the only solution.

James stood up working away stiffness and pain in his limbs. Miss Rachel indeed put him to work at the heaviest and most grueling of chores and although he didn't mind it, he soon discovered that he wasn't as well suited to those jobs as much as he would have preferred. He paced the length of the little garden, wary of the moon and stars knowing that dawn would approach sooner than he'd prefer.

He wasn't elucidating anything by talking to people. All Gibbs could tell him was that Sparrow knew that something, some sort of deal had been made, probably for a sum of the money from La Isla de Muerta. The isle of the dead. How prophetic. It still rankled him that Sparrow knew of this, even this small amount and did not deign to tell anyone while incarcerated. He supposed that he was just waiting for the "opportune" moment. What was done was done and James grudgingly had to admit that he needed all the help he could get. He still did not trust Sparrow nor believed him to truly help him fully but it was a start, a gleaning of hope that James firmly clung to. With that in mind, James had advised the pirates to go to friendlier quarters. They were all marked men, and knew that whoever was after himself and the other crew would also be after Sparrow.

That was until James talked to the network that evening. James had received some money from Sparrow to help him in the search, perhaps a sort of repentance for the loss of the _Interceptor_ which James was only too happy to take. His own meager stack of coins would not buy the ear nor the tongue of the man he sought and it was a blessed relief when Sparrow tossed him the pouch.

_No, it wasn't loyalty nor duty to King and Country that influenced men. It was the comfort of a full belly and the pleasant burn of alcohol down the throat that influenced these men._

Andrew Honeywell was his name and was well known to society as a professional drunk. James had met him a few years previous when he tried to become, unsuccessfully, an officer. There was something in that man's air, from his dark hair and eyes to the tactful, measured words that interested James. The man was not wealthy and not necessarily of the aristocracy which proved all the better. It was that man that James sought to start the first network of spies in that quarter of the Empire. Honeywell was given all the resources James could muster and was only paid through good intelligence. They had communicated through letters using templates and on a rare occasion a meeting. He never knew who the other members of the network were in real life, only their code numbers to protect the men further. Lieutenant Groves often served as a liason as well, and had worked actively in the weeks before to find the man.

Technically now that James and Theodore were gone, Honeywell would report to Weatherby directly and James worried that someone on Swann's staff could loose lips. James needed to know what the network knew and he promptly told Honeywell such at a tavern one evening. The man had watched James with his giant dark orb-like eyes while James counted out coin for the man. No, James would not have to worry about Andrew Honeywell, at least until he was out bid.

Honeywell told him that there were still men in Tortuga that were friends of Barbossa. It was those men that Honeywell supposed were responsible for the attacks, which would pose problems as Tortuga was still technically in foreign hands. They were the ones who ruthlessly ran about killing the men, attacking ships etcetera. Honeywell feared however that it was soon turning into a bloodlust. No one was safe, no matter what quarter of the globe you traversed.

James wished he could believe the story but it was too implausible for him. If it were true that these pirates were working alone they would not need to kill the men in the first place. Perhaps James himself, but not the other men. Someone implanted fear into those pirate hearts. There was fear, true uninhibited fear that drove these men to such great heights. After such fear was instilled in the men, they would stop at nothing until it was resolved.

He paced further, his hands behind his back in that classic pose. His heart raced and thoughts whirled about his head. James closed his eyes.

_I need to think as that man does, the man that did this. I'm afraid. Afraid of being caught, the shame of it all. I feel…remorse. It was not as I intended. I didn't realize that when you frighten pirates like that that they'll stop at nothing, do anything. They're running around in complete contempt of my wishes, threatening, killing. Their thirst will not be sated until everyone is dead. And I…cannot stop them._

_Something must have happened. Something major that caused me to lose faith in people, in things, else I wouldn't have dreamt of this._

_I'm someone about society. _

James's eyes flew open, and he stopped abruptly. He looked up to the sky, the heavens and gulped.

"No… do you understand what you're asking me to do?" He whispered softly.

James shook his head fervently, and sank on his knees in the soft, damp earth. They were all a quasi family there. Sons, brothers, family. But now that family was irrevocably broken, some dead, some perhaps soon would be. They had been so lucky to survive the pirate attack on Port Royale, but now their luck had finally run out.

_I must end this._


	26. Chapter 26

Author's Note: Slight violence implied in this chapter. Hope you enjoy. Read and review please!

Will paced in the foyer of the great mansion, the morning beams hitting the polished floors making them glow a deep honey color. He peered into the cane receptacle nonchalantly and released a low chuckle when he saw that arm of the candelabra still in there.

A sudden tension seized his chest. He silently chastized himself, allowing himself to be cowed by the invisible spectre of Governor Weatherby Swann. Whatever good humor the two men shared had dissipated rather quickly and they were left with only one thread- Elizabeth. It was by their mutual love and caring of that one woman that allowed them to converse in some form.

Will thought back to that offer James had made so long ago to that little boy. He had allowed the scene to slowly fade, to lay dormant for so long it was a miracle it wasn't forgotten. No even then Will was his own person, in spirit at least. But here he was 8 years later, in the trade prescribed by Weatherby Swann.

"_Young Turner, you are a smart lad. Too smart, I believe, for manual labor…"_

James Norrington had been right, as usual ever the idealist. No, Will could never live up to the ideal suitor, the ideal that Weatherby held of James Norrington. Perhaps James Norrington couldn't either. The perception eclipsing the person itself.

Abruptly the door was opened and a butler beckoned Will forward. Awkwardly, Will took up the sword cases and walked warily into the study. Weatherby sat at his great desk shifting through countless sheafs of parchment. He leaned heavily on his fist, half heartedly looking over dispatches from all quarters of the island. His shoulders had previously endured the years and strain as a politician, but it would seem that finally they had failed him. An uncharacteristic slump had taken hold of his person and added to his melancholy aura.

Bowing in deep respect to his father in law, he waited expectantly to receive acknowledgement before presenting the swords. Swann looked up at him, haggard, tired brown circles as eyes. He had lost weight in the past months, and his face was lined in areas where it had still been touched by youthfulness. The quiet affability that seemed to emanate forth from the man had died to a bare ember, faintly glowing deep within those eyes.

Will bowed his head, ashamed. There had been so much infighting, so much… loss of faith, of ideals running through the town. As Governor of Jamaica, Weatherby Swann must acutely feel that sense of uncertainty. And now Will had removed his one remaining anchor, his daughter from his circle. Swann had no wife, no James to push him past his social consciousness, and now no daughter to dote upon.

"Ah, good…Will. I see you've brought the swords."

He smiled and nodded vigorously, at a loss for words at the moment. Wordlessly, with a tinge for the theatrical, he slowly opened the case and presented Swann with the Commodore's sword.

Weatherby took it in his hand, a bittersweet smile upon his face. Perfectly balanced as usual, burnished to such a shine that it would blind in sunlight. He passed it over with his fingers slowly, catching his reflection in the perfect metal.

He swallowed painfully and croaked. "It's different."

Will flashed a sympathetic smile. "Yes, I thought to change the filigree and gold inlay a bit out of respect for the…"

His words halted, dead upon his tongue as he made eye contact with Swann. The man looked so much older than he was, his eyes misting just slightly, his cheekbones angled where previously they were rounded by good food and company.

No he couldn't do it. He couldn't continue with his original intention for this revue. He bowed again and tried to excuse himself when Weatherby at last spoke.

"You'll take care of her, won't you?" He said it softly, with a slight choke at the end as he looked back down at another dispatch.

Will turned sharply, sharper than he intended. _How on Earth did that man do that? Were his spies in every quarter of the island?_

Weatherby continued on, his eyes clouding over, suddenly expressionless. "I've heard talk that you plan on moving to the New York colony."

He just couldn't do it. Damn it all. Will paused in thought, willing himself not to stumble over his words. "No… I had mentioned something like that in a passing fancy, but I don't believe so any longer, Sir."

Swann furrowed his brow slightly and nodded. He offered Turner a weak smile, and Will thought that for the first time in their acquaintanceship that Will caught something like respect in Weatherby Swann's eyes.

---

Elizabeth sat in the sweltering infirmary and rolled up her sleeve warily with shaking fingers. An outbreak of the pox had appeared and Elizabeth was worried. She had never experienced it before but in her new home she didn't doubt the eventuality of the dreaded disease.

The doctor was an older man, bespectacled and a gentle smile. He handed her the needle so she could see how long it was. Elizabeth toyed with the string gently before handing it back to him, nodding shortly.

_Would this be the end of her? Would she die from this?_

Elizabeth watched with rapt attention as he carefully drew the needle and string through an infected pustule of the sleeping patient beside them, cringing as it withdrew with a sickly pus attached.

He held it up to her again, eye level, asking her again if she wanted to go through it all. Elizabeth knew the dangers, the dangers that it might be too potent, that you could die from it just as if you had contracted it naturally. But it could also be in a weaker form that the body could fight better.

She gulped and nodded again. A sweet smile formed on her lips, an impish grin really, as she watched the needle nestle beneath her skin and out again as the string, pus and all followed. She was doing this for Will, for them.

---

_He was there. This was the moment that Charlotte had dreamt of and finally he was there. His back turned, still miraculously in a dark blue cloth, his shoulders still somewhat arrogantly perched. She startled and started to run toward him, but as she approached his features blurred. His fine face was obscured. There were no eyes, no nose, no mouth. _

_A sudden flash of fear seized her. What color were his eyes? What shape was his mouth? Why couldn't she remember?_

Charlotte shot forward with a start, and rubbed her eyes in confusion. Sweating heavily she angrily kicked off her sheets.

"His eyes are green, green like the palm fronds here, and… and he has a wide smile when he's relaxed. His eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles, when he laughs, and his eyebrows dip low." She gulped, trying to assuage her fears.

It was all just a dream, a horrible dream. Wearily weaving her long fingers through her blond locks, she sat forward, leaning on her knees. A damp heat clung to the waning night air, her curls hanging limp and Charlotte could tell it would be a hot day. She lazily rolled out of bed taking with her a mass of sheets. Trailing them behind her, Charlotte picked her way about the room, taking an article here and discarding it only moments later. She picked up a pair of breeches reverently, her fingers lightly skimming the thick cloth.

The scent of him still clung to the fabric of her clothing and she smiled. It was such a stark change from his uniforms, so pressed and groomed to perfection. His civilian clothing was for the most part well worn, sweat stains about the collars and frayed at the cuffs.

Charlotte pinned her hair back with a small grin, wrapping her coat around her body protectively before walking out her bedroom chambers. Another day had arrived, albeit a bit earlier than desired, and Jacomb had requested her attendance that morning.

She peeked her head out the door mischievously before ducking out to the stables. James's mount would greet her, as he had in the past. A large horse, 17 hands, with a glossy coat who would indignantly stomp his hoof and toss his great head in disapproval at his master's reticence. Charlotte walked near the stables, taking in the smell of horses and feed, aimlessly playing with the cuff of her coat. She did not see Paul, but it was early yet and she suspected he took early morning rides on the horses.

"_Snotty redhead no more convincin' than you an' a dark haired bloke…"_

Charlotte didn't know about the dark haired man, but the snotty redhead seemed to remind her of a certain Lieutenant. In fact, she was sure of it. But what did this mean then? That he still cared, that he still believed despite his own inclinations? What did he know? Would he believe her if she told him about the flowers?

She made her way to the great horse, all fire and passion that morning when she smelled something odd in the air- the acrid smell of something familiar that she couldn't quite place. A bit metallic, almost like iron, almost like blood. Striking flint to a hurricane lamp she fell back with a scream at once. She had indeed found Paul face down in a pile of hay with a note tacked to his back.

_Next time you'll join your husband._

---

Nathaniel frowned as he made his way up the steps of the Norrington household, throwing open past doors he believed he had firmly shut. It was early and he had already been up for a few hours, sifting through the personal effects of the men found killed in the alleyway a few days past. A grim task to be sure, and one he did not relish. He knew there had been no point to the exercise, that the pirates would have removed anything incriminating before they left, but Nathaniel still felt compelled to check before Hannum returned later that day.

He had watched with morose pleasure as the articles of clothing were dropped unceremoniously in front of him. The stench alone emanating from them was enough to make a man turn his head, but Nathaniel had continued on oblivious to all. His jaw had been in a perpetual clenched state as he sifted through the items. The brutality with which these men had been dealt was unbelievable, especially since the pirates had left them for the most part exposed. As if they wanted them to be found.

Fighting at fatigue and his own irritation he pushed past the gaping throngs of staff hovering about the foyer in a daze. He rubbed his temple trying vainly to stave off a headache in the noise of the crowd. Luckily, one of the staff recognized him and escorted him upstairs.

Nathaniel entered a darkened room with the hope of more elucidation. He had been given the barest of details; that Mrs. Norrington had found a member of her staff apparently assaulted in the stables early that morning. He had been found with a note attached to his back as well as bound and gagged.

He did not like the looks of the facts. Gillette knew that Charlotte had gone against his express wishes and continued her search. It was even rumored that she went to a tavern to consult with a Mr. Gibbs. He frowned and sighed. That woman would find trouble certainly if she did not stop. And there was nothing that he nor anyone else could do about it.

Gillette hesitated at the doorway, a slight panic seizing him. This was the first time he had seen her in what seemed like ages. The first time since he had so firmly declared his own intentions. Try as he might, a faint nervousness started at his fingertips and he started fidgeting in a futile attempt to stop.

_Be cool, cold, detached._

He cleared his throat and continued into the room. Nathaniel breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of Mrs. Norrington and quickly made his way to the doctor. Stevens was his name. A good sort of man, and one of the very best doctors Port Royale had to offer. If there was a man who could help the boy, Stevens would be the man.

The doctor made his way to Nathaniel, his age betraying nothing in his walk. His wizened gray hair was neatly pulled back, and he fixed his spectacles hurriedly.

"Lieutenant, so good of you to come. The boy is very bad. He was spicketted, you know."

Nathaniel raised an eyebrow and let out a sigh. He subconsciously looked down at his feet, thinking about what pain must have coursed through the boy's body. They would have lifted him up, probably a man on each side of the boy, making sure that he wouldn't break free of their grasp as they administered the awful punishment. As he was bound and gagged, they wouldn't have had to worry about the noise too much either. They would have taken a large board, and hammered a long nail firmly into place. Placing the board nail point up, they would have lifted the miserable Paul and lowered him until his foot rested on the tip of the nail. Then it would be a matter of time, how slowly they wanted him to sink into the nail. If it went on uninterrupted they would have had time to see the nail completely through.

Nathaniel cleared his throat and quietly muttered. "What a gruesome event- I can scarcely conceive of it. I assume that it was complete?"

The old doctor nodded hesitantly. "Yes, unfortunately it was. He must have been in terrible pain when it occurred and it is a wonder that he wasn't heard."

Gillette felt his jaw muscles tightening, grinding his teeth in a subtle fury. "Will the boy walk again?"

Stevens looked at the Lieutenant and shrugged. "Perhaps, if the boy so chooses. It all depends on his own determination."

Gillette nodded and looked to the nightstand. Curious he picked up a small parchment, a bill from a tavern. On one side was the picture of the errant Lieutenant Groves and demand for his capture, where on the other side was the threat to Mrs. Norrington. They were getting desperate. Desperate enough to spicket a man just to scare another person. A woman no less.

They were getting closer, closer to whatever fate had in store for them. Nathaniel felt a shiver run down his spine and excused himself.

---

_"Will you be brave for me, Mrs. Norrington? Could I ask you to do something for me?"_

Charlotte stood at a large window, looking at the uncharacteristically gray day before them. A storm was coming and the sky was cast in angry shades of pewter. Charlotte looked on in wonder as the downcast sky brought out the vibrancy in the other colors. It had been such a long time since she had seen the island so green so full of life. She watched a faint reflection of herself in the mirror and saddened.

_"I am hosting a large ball the night of the promotion ceremony, and there will be small festivities throughout the day."_

"Why is society still talking about me, Sarah?"

She looked at that old, familiar face that had followed her throughout all her life. Charlotte saw the years of care and worry. She readied the gown, making final sewing adjustments to the large vast array of silks and satins and Charlotte cringed at the faint rustle of the copious amounts of fabric.

"They're talking about your marriage, Ma'am."

_"The entire town is in mourning, Mrs. Norrington. Do you not believe it is time for us to give it up, at least publically?"_

Charlotte looked up questioningly.

"They wonder when you're going to remarry."

_"It's hard I know. I wouldn't even think of asking you, but well, I'm worried about you Mrs. Norrington. You walk through the streets as if in a daze. My people inform me that they've even seen you traipsing around in nothing more than a wench's garb a tavern."_

She narrowed her eyes in suspicion. "What are you talking about? I'm in mourning, I've just begun."

Sarah simply shrugged. "It's the Caribbean. Many people die, it's a harsh land. Now if this were London, it'd be different. But this is Port Royale, and they don't really expect you to carryout your full mourning. Look at all the widows out there right now. Few women indeed aren't wearing black. Besides, it's not as if you really loved him. But now you're rich, you can marry for love. You can afford to marry. It's not a dream any longer."

_"If people were to see you about in something less mournful, they would take it as a sign. This promotion ceremony is a means to heal wounds and start afresh. Will you help me?"_

Sarah walked over to Charlotte and mischievously she grinned, "You can now marry even the poorest blacksmith around, dear."

"Indeed."

---

Nathaniel sank deep into a chair relishing the darkened room after a long and eventful day. He sighed and ran a hand through his short auburn hair. He looked at the newly pressed uniform, standing ready for the promotion ceremony the next day. Nathaniel smile ruefully and returned to his pistol. The glowing embers of a fire long dead reflected off the metal of the pistol. Gillette played with the ramrod before forcefully shoving it down the barrel, firmly packing the powder in place.

_"It was you all along, wasn't it? You are the one James is looking for, aren't you?" Groves fixed him with a pointed stare, but his eyes betrayed a deeper hurt._

He played with the ball, rolling it about his fingers watching as faint gray tracks emerged on the pads of his fingertips.

_Gillette chuckled a little. "What are you talking about? Don't be ridiculous."_

_Groves stood there, his arms crossed over his chest. "No, I've figured it out. It had to be you."_

_He withdrew his pistol slowly, gauging Gillette's reaction. Click. The ball slid easily down the barrel of the pistol._

Nathaniel caressed the gun in his hand, affectionately tracing the intricate etchings in the cherry wood handle. Slowly, almost playfully he slid the ball in the barrel and smiled at the reassuring clink.

_Groves smiled mockingly at Gillette and pretended to count out paces._

"_You won't fire at me. I'm your friend." Gillette smirked. Gillette knew that he was right. _

"_You're right, I won't." The gun lowered. Gillette breathed a sigh of relief._

_That momentary pause of Gillette's was all that Groves needed. Seizing the opportunity, he swung with all his might, and the world erupted into a million little stars._

_The last thing Nathaniel remembered was a faint voice whispering. "…but someone will."_

Indeed someone would, and perhaps it would finally be Nathaniel himself. Every night since his return to Port Royale had seen him at the same chair, facing the same window overlooking the bay. He breathed in deeply, taking in the heavy, humid night air. His hand brushed a thick packet of parchment, sealed and neatly placed on his desk where no one would miss it.

Why had he taken that fated apple from the hands of such a rogue snake? Furthermore, had he declined said apple, would he be happy living in Eden, or would the seed of temptation lie dormant within until opportunity presented itself?

The fall had certainly occurred but what sort of town had he left in his wake? One void of faith, of hope? Where they all clawed for something, anything to hold onto to anchor themselves from the oncoming storms?

Drawing in a shaky breath he cocked he pistol and placed the gun squarely against his temple. Smiling sorrowfully he cast one final, wistful gaze at the bay and horizon before him.

This was it, he would finally be able to do this after so many sleepless nights and harried days. Steadying himself he drew in a deep breath, with any luck his last, and pulled the trigger.

He smiled finally, as he heard the pleasing snap of the firing pin as it hit the flash pan.


	27. Chapter 27

---

Weatherby watched mournfully as the amber hues touched the morning sky, and he shifted his attention back to the recently arrived Captain Hannum. It had been Weatherby's express wish, after all, that the man report to him as soon as he was able to meet but really dawn was a bit much.

The man that sat before him that morning was by no means a James Norrington. His wide, rough and tanned face was drawn in taut lines that morning, and Hannum proved to be a veritable study of uncomfortable. Weatherby suppressed a smile, watching the man fidget in the chair, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

Captain Andrew Hannum cared not a jot for his impending promotion and everyone was painfully aware of this slight detail. It was a regrettable necessity, to promote a man whose heart was so expressly against the course of action, but the Admiralty had made it clear that no further help would follow, and that they would have to simply work with what was given.

Which wasn't to say that Hannum wasn't a good captain, in fact Swann had heard that he was one of the best, but the simple fact remained that there was a large divide between Captain and Commodore that one couldn't ignore. Just as there were good field generals but awful commanders, there could be good captains while being awful commodores. Or so James had once informed Weatherby. Hannum was a fine captain, with a good record but his heart remained with his ship and his crew, not in some office in Fort Charles. He was irritable around the Fort, and unhappy at the numerous hours he now spent equipping the Navy with food.

He heard a slight cough and snapped his attention back to Hannum.

The man flashed him a small, sad smile. "Your Excellency, the reason I've called on you particularly at this early hour is to report to you what I've learned. Unfortunately I have not been able to intercept Jack Sparrow and the community is ripe with the speculation that he has left this quarter of the world. I do not believe this however, and suggest we wait until he gains some form of comfort before pursuing him again.

"The pirates I did pick up however, spoke of some interesting events. They are not afraid of the Navy, not in the slightest. The man they are afraid of is one who walks the streets of Port Royale virtually anonymously. He had gained the love of the people before, and he still retains it now. The man is said to have remarkable green eyes." Hannum looked up at this last remark with a long frown and shifted in his seat.

Weatherby watched the man with a guarded expression, pretending to divine what he intended by that statement.

Hannum cleared his throat. "Governor, the man they speak of is James Norrington as you well know. And the implications of that…"

They sat there in stony silence, the accusation left unsaid. Swann started to shake his head slowly. "I will not believe it for a moment. Until you provide me with something more certain, we shall keep this between ourselves."

---

"_Snotty redhead no more convincin' than you an' a dark haired bloke…"_

Charlotte shifted in her large and rather expensive London monstrosity as she fought the breeze on the battlements. Her golden tendrils were coyly teased and curled for the occasion into a large puff perched precariously on top of her head. It was so odd indeed to be in normal attire, devoid of all that darkness, of all the mourning that had encompassed her entire being. Instead she was swathed in a delicate dress in blue, cinched at the waist impossibly as London dictated, as Weatherby Swann had dictated. It was a relic of her former life, before the Caribbean, before James Norrington. Her hand gently rested on her abdomen, her fingertips playing with the delicate lace pattern on her stomacher as she fanned herself with the other hand, looking at the myriad of Port Royale society. The contest to out-mourn the other soon tired of its intrinsic charm and the upper echelons had been only too happy to comply with the Governor's plea for normalcy, to move forward.

And now she was there before all these people as a testament of her devotion to a promise, to love. She subconsciously raised her hand to a large collection of native flowers woven into her locks- the only indication of her own self.

The sun was unmerciful that day, as if it could sense what was taking place and beat its rays down upon the large gathering of people. The wind could barely stir, and she watched many white sails vainly unfurled in the lazy waters.

_What a beautiful day indeed for a promotion ceremony! _She huffed to herself, cursing the Governor for his apparent culpability in the awful choice of day.

She heard the smart drum roll of the Marines and watched as the men took two paces. Solitary footsteps echoed off the stone walls of Fort Charles and she saw Captain Hannum pause before commencing his long walk.

At the other end facing the Captain stood Weatherby Swann. Charlotte flashed him a sympathetic smile and he nodded slightly in return. His warm brown eyes had lost much of their shine and had withdrawn beneath his large eyebrows. Sallow pits had formed in his cheeks, and lines drew his face. Even his mouth, seemingly pulled in perpetual affability had faltered. His eyes misted over and he blinked rapidly to recover. What little color left in his cheeks drained when he saw Hannum approach.

_Of course. The last time there was one of these ceremonies, James was the one promoted. And now the Governor must appoint his successor._

For all of his machinations and diplomacy, Charlotte could gauge how acutely Weatherby Swann must have felt the weight of the ceremony. She watched him as he composed his face in an uncharacteristically stony expression as he stood by the new Commodore Hannum. They all shifted and looked again waiting for the next promotion.

Charlotte had barely had time the day previous to talk to Nathaniel and she sorely regretted it. He had stopped by so soon after that she was still in a state of shock from the spicketting. It was all her fault. She didn't know where James was, and it was unlikely that people would listen to her. Furthermore she didn't even know if he was alright. She bowed her head and looked to her side. She had been so foolish, and had blundered about so badly! And for what? Nothing. Poor Paul would have a slow recovery process indeed, if infection did not take root, and she was estranged from perhaps the one man who could help her.

All eyes turned expectantly to the start of the line, waiting for that familiar face to make his way down the awaiting aisle of men. A small smile played with her lips as she wondered how he must feel to finally earn his promotion.

A small buzz started to emerge from the crowd. Charlotte strained to get a better view, and was shocked to see that Nathaniel was not there yet.

_How could he be late for his own promotion ceremony?_ People began to look anxiously around and an unsettling, tentative calm washed over the group.

A slight sigh overcame them a few moments later when the errant Lieutenant finally made his appearance. Charlotte smiled and turned to watch the ceremony. He walked down the aisle slowly, his steps uncertain and stiff. Nathaniel's face, normally pale was absolutely ghostly. The dark shadows under his eyes were more pronounced than ever and his brown eyes, normally so merry and soft had become cold and detached. His tall frame had lost its characteristic gait. Instead, there was just a broken man in front of her.

---

_Damn, damn damn! _Was he truly such a failure in life that he could not even successfully complete his own death? The damp night air had gotten to the powder, making it useless. Of course. How utterly poetic.

He walked down the aisle, painstakingly slowly. He heard soft snap of drumbeats in the background, but they held none of the pomp and ceremony for Nathaniel. For him, they were a complement for his death march. The sun, normally attracted to his dark blue coat, was an unmitigated terror that day. He felt the perspiration gather at the base of his wig and he wished for any sort of reprieve from the harsh weather. It was insufferably hot and humid that day, and it would seem that the dampness in the air had permeated his fine coat, dragging down his shoulders.

---

Weatherby watched with a rueful fascination as Gillette drew the sword with a practiced finesse. The sun caught the sword, and lit it up full blaze in the unrelenting sunlight. He watched with mild disinterest as Gillette passed the sword through his hands, the inspection in a rigid, mechanical sort of fashion.

_The paths of glory lead but to the grave. _

He watched as the blade whirled through the air effortlessly, leaving brief but bright tracks of silver in its wake. Weatherby let out a long breath, and he fought the violent urge to mop his forehead.

His eyes traveled over the collection of faces assembled before him, and he could not help but frown. They were all there in such a horrible farce, such a terrible rendition. The principles were a mere shadow of the men, or rather the man, that preceded them and that precise spectre hung over them.

There. It was done. The promotion ceremony over, and their predecessors just mere names on paper. Wearily, Weatherby broke ranks and motioned for the reception to begin, his heart full with dread of the long day ahead.

---

The soft clink of glasses and the faint rustle of skirts began to grate on Nathaniel's nerves and he walked stiffly about the ballroom. Idly he glanced at the clock, wondering when he would be able to slip away for the night. Unfortunately it was still much too early and most of the members of Port Royale were determined to see him that night.

Roughly he ran a hand over his face. He would try again tonight. He had taken some more powder from the store rooms. It wouldn't fail tonight.

"Why Captain Gillette!" Nathaniel shuddered and turned slowly about to face Mrs. Anderten, a self appointed matriarch of Port Royale society.

He watched with trepidation as her formidable figure glided toward his person. She towered over the newly appointed Captain, her powdered hair pulled impossibly high and fastened with a collection of odiferous sea shells. Her rather voluminous figure had been ungraciously stuffed into a London made gown, a gaudy affair that was really more of a curtain than any discernable fashion.

Her shrill voice trilled and Nathaniel shuddered again as she sidled up next to him. "Captain, Captain. How wonderful that sounds!"

Mrs. Anderten clasped her hands about her heart looked adoringly into his eyes. Nathaniel attempted a step backward but she pursued with unrelenting zeal. "But now, _Captain_ Gillette, you are in a fine position to, ah, marry, eh? It is such a pity that my Lucretia should have been married already but such things cannot be helped. However, as your dear friend and I'd like to think a sort of relative in this strange outpost, I'd like to help you."

She looked at him with a knowing smile, and before he could answer she motioned over to the Governor, who was conveniently talking with a one Mrs. Charlotte Norrington. He groaned inwardly and made to excuse himself when Weatherby caught the pair and nodded them forward.

---

"And how are you holding up, Mrs. Norrington?" Weatherby asked quietly.

Charlotte smiled gratefully and sighed, gesturing to the happy throng of dancers. "Well enough, I suppose. It would seem that your ball here tonight is a roaring success."

Weatherby nodded, but his chin bobbed just slightly. "Indeed, perhaps too much so."

Mrs. Norrington flashed a sidelong glance to the Governor, his dark eyes lost in his own thoughts. They were interrupted however, by the wonderfully vociferous Mrs. Anderten, the queen scourge of society in Port Royale.

She sauntered up to the Governor and Charlotte with an all too winning smile and she pitched the new Captain forward with some amount of force. He came to a brisk halt just inches in front of her, their first meeting face to face in quite some time. Charlotte looked deep into his wide, startled eyes and they shifted about uncomfortably.

Weatherby sensed the tension amidst them, and swiftly engaged Mrs. Anderten in a question of the newest London fashions. He flashed Charlotte a silent question but maneuvered the elder lady to the side.

Charlotte stood before Nathaniel, mouth gaping and eyes wide. She wished desperately to say something, anything. To apologize for everything, to say that she was sorry. But it was the wrong set, there were too many people about and they could feel the press of everyone against them. So they stood there in stony silence, wishing to say everything and nothing at once.

"Why, what a fine pair you make, just standing here!" Mrs. Anderten said chuckling. "There is a ball here, Captain Gillette, and a night for celebration! Come, come now Captain. Doesn't pretty Mrs. Norrington look as if she desires a dance?"

Charlotte shook her head vehemently and Nathaniel for once, was in concurrence. Unfortunately Mrs. Anderten would not be dissuaded and she joyously took Charlotte's hand and offered it to Gillette. He looked down at it with a mixture of loathing and fear and Charlotte cocked her head in confusion.

Nathaniel gestured at Charlotte and said with a smile, "Most assuredly there is many a man in this room tonight who would do Mrs. Norrington the honor, and I could not deprive the male populace from such an esteemed honor."

He looked about with a pleased countenance as if he had won some great battle, but that soon faltered as the lady spoke again. "All the more reason you should take her now, whilst there is a spare moment! Surely Mrs. Norrington cannot object, hm? Well it's settled then. Now go on, the both of you. There's been much too much frowning from the lot of you, and it would do us all some good to smile, to laugh again."

Nathaniel resigned himself to the task with a slight sigh and as he took her hand, Charlotte cast a glance over her shoulder to the Governor and Mrs. Anderten.

Weatherby gave her a sympathetic glance, an unspoken understanding between them and he quietly spoke. "Would it not have been better, Mrs. Anderten to let them sort it out amongst themselves, according to their own wishes?"

She tilted her chin and puffed her chest a bit. "Nonsense, Governor. Besides, as you said previously, there's been so much sadness. We need laughter, we need smiles to weather us through these difficult times."

He did not respond, but to frown and cast a glance back at the retreating couple.

---

The ballroom area was hot from the amount of couples on the floor and the dance only added to the stifling environment. Such terse rhythms, and strict steps were a poor choice for the night, but apparently no one else seemed to mind it in the least.

With the exception, perhaps, of Nathaniel Gillette who seemed to wish death upon himself that instant. They walked the rigid steps, performing the motions with a detached air uncharacteristic of either partner. It was further exacerbated by the mounting pairs of eyes that seemed to follow them, trying to discern the meaning in their dance, in their company.

Charlotte sighed and looked to her side at all the other laughing, conversing couples. It was at times like this when she desperately wished for some form of conversation, regardless of how per functionary it might be.

Especially since she had so much news to tell him. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of release, of finally being able to tell someone what she had discovered, about James. Undoubtedly he would be cross at her at first, for disobeying his express wish, but as he had said before, extraordinary events demanded extraordinary actions.

She touched the flowers yet again, the feel of the silken petals against her fingertips, somehow reassuring and she genuinely smiled back at Nathaniel for the first time that evening.

---

What he had wished for was death, preferably slow and painful but really, a ball was not the first avenue he would have thought of.

The crowds were insufferable, especially tonight and he wished for the cool comfort of his quarters, this one last time.

_Would it hurt? Would he see a great flash of light before being cast down? How many circles were there exactly?_

"Nathaniel?"

He looked down, startled at the sound of a human voice, specifically _her_ voice.

Charlotte looked up at him expectantly, with a sense of exasperation. "I was merely commenting on Mrs. Anderten's appearance this evening."

"Hmm. Yes, she does look remarkably well preserved this evening." He said dismissively.

Unfortunately, to Nathaniel's ever mounting dismay, even this small comment seemed to give Mrs. Norrington an undue sense of comfort that she had been searching for. She leaned in closer to him and whispered, "I've figured it out Nathaniel. It was you, wasn't it?"

His heartbeat accelerated dangerously and he could feel what little blood left in his face drain instantly. "W-What do you mean?"

Charlotte looked up at him with a knowing smile and coyly said, "I figured it out. It was you all along, it had to be."

Nathaniel let out a bitter laugh, a bark and he sighed. Truly well and done, Mrs. Norrington. Confront him at the one place where he would be trapped. How very thoughtful.

An uneven pause settled between them before Charlotte opened her mouth. "You do care about James still, don't you?"

He fought hard against the confusion and the dance steps, trying vainly to maintain the rhythm as he watched, horrified, as a flush crept up on Charlotte's cheek, and a light in her blue eyes ignited.

"No Nathaniel," she said quietly, fervently, "let me continue, lest I lose my courage. I talked to people at the tavern, inquiring as to anything about James, and they mentioned others before us had come there previously. And one of them was described as a 'snotty red head.'"

_Foolish girl. She had risked everything in so cavalier a manner for so little._ She paused, smiling wryly. "And I know of only one man who could fit that description."

Gillette flashed a weak smile and bowed his head, composing his thoughts before speaking. But once again, Mrs. Norrington would not be stopped.

"Please Nathaniel. I know of no one else I can relate this to." A sharp pang of guilt, of pain began to burn in his chest.

He furrowed his brow with an increasing sense of dread. _Don't tell me anything. I don't want to know, I don't need to know. I don't want you to know. _

She leaned looked around them, worry plain on her face, and she whispered. "James. He's alive. He's here somewhere."

---

She was beginning to think that her confidence was misplaced in that situation as Nathaniel stopped abruptly in the middle of the dance, staring at her dumbfounded. His pale, drawn face became paler somehow and his eyes regarded her warily.

"It's the flowers. He left flowers at his own grave marker. The very same that he gave me on our wedding day. No one else knows about them, it has to be from him, it has to be a sign…" Heat flushed her skin as she realized how trivial, how silly her remarks were, and her words failed her.

They stood there, looking at each other in incredulity and Nathaniel bowed his head again. But before it dipped low, Charlotte thought she saw a flash of a tear in his warm brown eyes.

"You do not know what you're doing, Charlotte. " He murmured quietly, unable to raise his eyes to meet hers. "You are playing with tempests, with forces beyond anyone's control, even I cannot help you anymore."

She paused, unsure of what to say.

He bowed politely and took her hand before sharply turning on heel and leaving.

---

Charlotte wearily trudged home and into the foyer. The night had been a complete waste as far as she was concerned, and Nathaniel's strange behavior still worried her. She paused affectionately at the portrait of James and smiled sweetly.

He looked down at her, with that characteristic half smile, shrouded in mystery and her fingertips lightly skimmed the large frame. Tomorrow. She would begin again tomorrow.

Smiling with that knowledge, she started to make her way to the stairs when she was grabbed roughly from behind. A large, dirty hand closed over her mouth quickly, before a sound could escape and suddenly a blinding light erupted in her head.

---

Charlotte stirred with great difficulty and cracked an eye open warily. The moon was large that night and bathed everything in a bluish glow. It was damp, wherever she was, and the smell of damp soil assaulted her nostrils.

Slowly rolling onto her side she looked up, startled to see a large grave marker in front of her. In large letters, "NORRINGTON" glistened in the moonlight.

A rough voice, breath burning with rum uttered in her ear. "Poor Mrs. Norrington. So sad by her husband's death, she killed 'erself."

A rough hand wrapped her silk scarf around her neck, drawing the cool material slowly about her neck. With a jerk they pulled it tightly and she felt the ends fasten quickly, securely about the neck. She sputtered at the sudden pressure and brought her hands up instinctively to claw about at it, but they were quickly suppressed.

There was a sudden commotion from behind her and she heard one of her captors fall to the ground harshly before being whipped about by her the other man. She wished desperately to scream, to make any noise of any sort, but she could only wheeze at the exertion.

They all halted however at the distinct sound of a pistol being cocked and an all too familiar voice. "Now then, give the lady here."

---

Fool! He had to find her, he had to. Wherever Charlotte was, would also be Gillette. She was the last known link. The last known objectionist. And they were out to erase past events. James raced through the darkened streets of Port Royale frantically. He had stopped by the house but she wasn't there and she would have no reason to be at the mills after dark. James was by the church when he heard the distinct crack of a pistol, coming from the cemetery.

Instinctively he grabbed his pistol and ran toward the gate, thankful for the moonlight. He ran up and down rows of markers before he stopped. He knew where they were.

---

As the smoke cleared Charlotte could clearly see Nathaniel Gillette standing before her, pistol in one hand. His warning shot had sufficiently rattled her captor and his grip on her considerably loosened.

"Oh thank goodness you're here, Nathaniel." She managed to choke out.

The man holding her began to chuckle and flashed what was left of his teeth. With an undue amount of theatrics he bowed deeply to Gillette and motioned to Charlotte.

"Your servant, Master."

Charlotte's wide blue eyes widened further, if that was possible, and she looked desperately from the pirate to Gillette. It was inconceivable, impossible and yet there was no forthcoming denial either.

Gillette finally met her gaze, but at once lowered it. _"I'm sorry, Charlotte."_

"Why Nathaniel, why did you do it?" She looked pleadingly into his eyes and saw more than a flash of remorse.

The man smiled wryly and passed her roughly to their master's arms. Nathaniel seized her around the wrists, pausing at the shock of her touch against his skin. They stood there in silence, gazing deep into the other's eyes.

Charlotte stood there, heartbeat reverberating within her ears until it was a dull roar. An unknown sort of release took hold of her, and she felt a quiet calm embrace her. So there it was. She would die that night.

She slowly, painstakingly inched the fingertips of her hand up to caress his cheek, still mindful of his own hand loosely clasped around her own wrist. "Please Nathaniel, tell me you didn't do it. I can take almost anything, the lies and intrigues from other people, but not from you."

His fragile countenance, a study of grief and self loathing broke at the last. He looked down into her tear logged eyes, the color of the Caribbean Sea and stifled a sob of his own.

She arched her neck willing herself to breathe, craning it to lean in closer to the man. "They were your closest friends. _They trusted you, I trusted you._"

"I know." He said softly.

---

"Please," she begged softly, "you're hurting me."

Nathaniel looked down at her wrists. They were white from the pressure of his ever increasing grip. She struggled in vain against him, and tears trickled down her cheeks. The moonlight reflected off her face, giving her a ghostly appearance.

He cast her down to the ground and willed her to leave, but she just stood there, gaping like a young doe at the shine off a musket.

"Go, be off with you now, while you still have the chance!" He pointed roughly back in the direction of the town, standing over her breathing heavily.

She propped herself up on her elbows, and defiantly lifted her chin. "_No._"

He knelt beside her quickly, cupping her face in his hands. "Why won't you listen to me just this once? I cannot bay their hands at this point. Can't you see, that I'm trying…"

Nathaniel brushed an errant strand of silvery blonde hair from her forehead. "…to save…"

"…your life?" A low growl rumbled from behind.

Charlotte snapped her attention to the direction of the new voice.

---

James stood in the bright moonlight, his pistol slightly wavering at the man before him.

_Do it. Do it now. Just pull the trigger and be done with it._

James drew in a shaky breath and pulled back the hammer, aiming straight for Nathaniel Gillette.

The man before him held a quiet dignity about him that stirred a loathing deep within James.

"Let go of her now." He barked.

Wordlessly Gillette dropped a bewildered Charlotte's wrists and stood, withdrawing his own pistol, aiming it directly at James.

A tinge of panic seized Norrington, but he dismissed it quickly, only too focused on his quarry. He began to circle Gillette with a slow, methodical precision as he made his way over to Charlotte.

"You killed all of them. They were your own men!" He hissed.

At that, Nathaniel started to shake his head violently. "I never intended that, not for anything."

Anger, betrayal, hurt- all of them threatened to erupt within the person of James Norrington and he sneered. "I don't care what you intended, Gillette. It won't heal the city, it won't revive the dead. Unless, of course, you have any of that Aztec gold handy, hm?"

Gillette steadily followed James, circling slowly with his own pistol drawn. "You don't understand. I never intended this. And don't you even presume to attribute it to a few trinkets."

Anger ripped through his veins and James stepped forward, speaking softly, "All those men, including Groves, died to protect you, to protect all of us."

Nathaniel choked on a stifled sob, "I know, damnit! Don't you think I know? Don't you think that thought has plagued me every night?"

James smiled sweetly, "Bullocks."

Gillette strode forward, tempting James with the shot and there was an air of desperation about him. "I- I've failed you, all of you, that's true. But it wasn't for anything so tawdry as trinkets, as baubles. I.. I just lost faith."

"Faith!" James spat, "Faith!"

Norrington watched as Nathaniel seemed to deflate under his harsh presence, and James let out a low chuckle. "What? Was you bed too hard in the infirmary?"

Gillette shook his head fervently. "You don't understand. You don't understand what it's like to be laid up for the better part of a year, being repeatedly passed up for promotion, even when you do everything right. It makes you rethink everything you've learned, James. Makes you question things."

There was something so oddly discomforting in hearing his Christian name spoken by Nathaniel that it sent a shiver down James's spine and he fought the urge to lower his gun.

"I told you to wait. That it would get better. I fought for you, as did the Governor." James started quietly, "But you couldn't wait that long, could you?"

At the mention of the Governor, a light fired within Gillette. "But that is precisely the problem. You advocate waiting, and patience but you've just turned yourself into Swann's pet. What happened to the James Norrington of younger years, when he wouldn't wait, when he would see things corrected himself? Now you would rather blindly trust in something, some abstract ideal than in reality."

"And you would rather believe that everything and everyone is inherently evil and that everything is hopeless. Tell me, do you believe in anything?"

Gillette walked up even closer, and to Norrington's continued dismay, James watched as the barrel of his gun wavered. "In a battle between reality versus _perceived_ reality, I will always gladly choose the former."

"So you just gave up on people, is that it?" James asked, enraged. "You gave up on all of us without a single hesitation."

Nathaniel frowned and with one hand moved James's gun off to one side.

"I had much hesitancy." He hissed, "And I never wanted this to happen."

James paused, strangled by the overwhelming urge to shoot the man and also his affection for the man he had once considered his own brother. "So you hesitated, and_ then_ passed on the strategy to Barbossa?"

Sensing his own hesitation, Nathaniel closed the gap between the men. "I did no such thing. I said it in passing folly in a tavern. I was in my cups and I didn't know who Barbossa was, nor what he looked like. It was only when he offered me that damned apple that I became wary. And then the attack happened…"

A slow sense of the dreaded realization closed in on James. "And you thought that you could fix this yourself? Is that why you were so keen on catching the pirates? Because of what they knew or because of whom they learned it from?"

Gillette could offer no response, the sweet release of confession momentarily fixing his countenance in something similar to contentment. James had enough of this tiresome game, and he raised his gun to Nathaniel's chest level and squared his finger on the trigger.

James looked into the warm, sherry brown eyes of his friend, steeling himself, willing himself to continue. Before him stood a man he had so willingly and completely trusted for the greater part of his life, a brother in every sense but blood. His low voice dipped lower and James said silkily, "You were my best friend, we fought campaigns together. The men trusted you implicitly. And you gave that all up. You've killed everyone around you. Perhaps it is time, finally, that the favor is returned."

---

Here it was, here was the end, and Nathaniel could think of none more fitting for his death than by his sincerest friend, the supposedly dead James Norrington. He was prepared for it, he had been for so many months now, and here was his dear friend to finish what Nathaniel himself could not.

Nathaniel looked into James's eyes for what he hoped would be the last time. The dark green eyes were narrowed and cloaked by his low eyebrows, but the sadness in them still radiated forth. His tanned face was lined and the corner of his mouth quirked in indecision.

_"No, wait!"_ Came the faint response from Charlotte, who still struggled against the scarf.

James looked down at his wife, blinking in surprise. For a brief moment, the rage, the hurt welled deep within the man abated and he made his way cautiously toward her.

"He has no shot, James." She choked as he struggled to untie the scarf, futilely it would seem.

His face, dark from the sun and his beard clouded over and he cursed under his breath. "You coward. It would be too generous to kill you here. You must face the public, you must face the law."

Gillette watched with rapt fascination as James made his way toward him and Nathaniel offered him his hands without protest. It was at that moment however, that the sudden crack, the report of a pistol pierced the sultry night air and Charlotte fell instantly back upon the ground.

---

It was like a hot poker embedded in her abdomen. She lay in the moonlight oblivious to all, felled at the base of her husband's marker and she looked up into the sky. The moonlight reflected off the sharp edges of the word "NORRINGTON" and she wondered idly how long it would be before she would join James, or rather whoever was buried there.

With bloodied hands, she struggled to untie the knot at her neck but it was in vain. The silk scarf was firmly knotted. She wheezed heavily and started to cough, tasting the tang of blood in her mouth. Charlotte couldn't breathe, the corset constricting everything and she clawed desperately to relieve the pressure on her abdomen.

"I'm coming to you James. I learned your secrets. I'm coming home." She smiled serenely, and her bloodied lips parted sweetly.

She stretched out her hand slowly and traced the letters of his name before the darkness enveloped her.

---

His own shot had been nearly instantaneous, not at Gillette but at the pirate behind him and he watched with dark pleasure as the pirate fell unmoving. Charlotte lay serenely, as if she were in a sleep and as he knelt beside her he saw a retreating figure make it's way to the gate. James looked vainly at the figure and then to the figure of Charlotte. Without another thought, he ran to her side and took out a blade.

_If he survived the night, he would have to thank Captain Sparrow for the idea._

James cut hastily the silk at her throat and then through the layers of her dress, until he reached her corset. Cutting the stays swiftly, he peeled it off. She coughed hoarsely and moaned.

He looked at her wound carefully. It was deep within and he'd need to get her help immediately. James took his ragged shirt and made it into ribbons, tying them securely around her waist. Gently he wrapped her in his coat and gathered her in his arms.

Her breathing was ragged, but she sensed the change location. Slowly cracking her eyes open, she looked up lazily into his eyes. With a bloodied hand she caressed his cheek.

"I've died, haven't I?"

He gave her a wan smile, "No, I won't let it happen."

"Don't worry, dear. You're here- I'm safe now."

James gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile and made some reassuring noises before she closed her eyes again.

---

Elizabeth had been enjoying a pleasant night with her father and Will when they heard the shot. Her father had immediately summoned some guards for protection and Will had already gone for the swords.

It was not long after however, that they heard frantic pounding at their door. Elizabeth briefly remembered the night of the _Black Pearl_ attack. She ran from the dining room only to see the door being opened yet again by an all too complacent butler.

Instead of a crowd of pirates, they were greeted by a solitary figure, his shirt torn and his coat wrapped securely against a slight of frame woman, her blonde hair falling down in waves.

"Please, she needs a doctor badly. It's all I ask of you."

Elizabeth's eyes opened wide, and she watched transfixed as the bloodied Mrs. Norrington was passed to the butler before marines seized hold of the man. Will and her father soon joined her and she heard a single word escape from their lips.

"James."

---

They hauled him roughly through the streets of Port Royale, apologetically clapping his hands in irons as they went.

She was safe. He wouldn't have to worry anymore. James walked through the streets and looked whistfully back at the Governor's mansion. The men were safe too still undetected in the back country, but Gillette had escaped. He had tried to tell them, but they wouldn't listen.

James looked reluctantly at the imposing structure of Fort Charles. This was where it would all end, and the men at the gates lowered their gazes respectfully.

---

James sat on the cold stone floor, with his back to the wall. A lone beam of moonlight streamed in and played on the golden hues of the hay around him. Golden like Charlotte's hair. He wondered absentmindedly how she was, but he had been unsuccessful in any acquisition of information. He watched the beam throughout the night as it traversed the expanse of the cell.

That damned dog trotted insolently by the cell just out of arm's reach. It would have been futile no matter what, for they had posted a guard to watch James the rest of the night. The sound of frantic hammering resounded through the remainder of the night as crews steadily worked to reconstruct the gallows. It would seem that they had decided that a trial wasn't necessary after all.

He held no regret nor any loathing for any of the men at the Fort, nor for the Governor. They were simply acting upon the information presented to them. With a heavy heart James resigned himself to his fate.

_Well played, Gillette. _He thought to himself.

James wearily rose and looked out the small window of his cell at the rose colored sky and he rested his head against the cool stone. It would be morning soon enough and the hammering had ceased.

---

Weatherby hastily threw on his coat and summoned his carriage. Mrs. Norrington was being operated on by his own physician and in the meantime, Swann needed to understand what had just occurred. James couldn't have done it. He just couldn't.

They immediately drew up on the grounds of Fort Charles, and Weatherby nearly fell out of the carriage in his haste. Hannum had already started a search for Captain Gillette, the only other person who had been there and Weatherby shivered slightly at the chilling sound of hammers.

Quickly he joined Commodore Hannum as they made their way to Gillette's quarters. Marines had already tried the door but it would not move. Quickly they collected a heavy bench and started to ram the door. Weatherby impatiently stood, watching the door as it finally gave way and fell open. Red coated men rushed in, the window shutters had been thrown open and moonlight bathed the room in an eerie bluish glow.

From a rafter in the middle of the room hung Nathaniel Gillette, his gaze still fixed upon the bay below the window.

---

James sat in a corner of his cell, the miniature of Charlotte clasped in his hands tightly, the golden hues of her hair washed in the morning light. She had been there, fought for him when he was in absentia, and furthermore stayed his hand when he needed it.

He swallowed thickly and ran his thumb over her portrait once again. He had nearly lost it there, in the graveyard with Nathaniel. But she had tempered him, reminded him of what he had lost, and what he could regain too perhaps.

What a fool he'd been, and now Charlotte would be the one to suffer yet again.

With a heavy heart, James looked up as the cell door swung open and he was beckoned forward.

---

Weatherby sat momentarily in the warm room, watching the scene unfold before him. Commodore Hannum sat off to his side, reading that extraordinary packet of Nathaniel Gillette's in wonderment. He had recounted his involvement in full, which in turn freed James on all accounts.

Hannum shook his head in disbelief and set the parchments down on the dresser and excused himself for a moment to collect his thoughts. Elizabeth, who had been drowsily reclining in the chair next to it lifted her head in interest and peered over to see the exposed page. Will, who had stood behind her, resting his arms easily on the back of her chair reached over to squeeze her shoulder gently. She looked up fondly and smiled before resting her head on his arms.

Weatherby smiled at the fledgling couple. The previous night had been a success, at least on some level, and Swann and Will had reached some sort of unspoken understanding.

He sighed, content and with a tinge of drowsiness himself as he looked to the large bed before them. Mrs. Norrington had survived the operation and slept fitfully before them. Perched on the side of the bed, gently stroking her hair sat James Norrington.

Upon release from prison he had rushed straight for the Governor's mansion, eagerly seeking out his injured wife. There was an admiration, perhaps even the start of love in the truest sense, for his wife when he asked for her. It was an emotion that Weatherby had not yet witnessed in the man before, not even with Elizabeth.

The man himself must have been exhausted, his face and hands flecked with newly acquired bruises and cuts, but he was oblivious to all. Aside from the physical pain must have been the emotional, the betrayal of his good friend, a betrayal that even stung Weatherby himself. But James Norrington was not deterred in the slightest, for he had finally found the mutual aid and understanding that he had lacked for so long. Even Elizabeth would not have been able to reciprocate the required affection.

Weatherby wearily rose, looking over the room one last time. Elizabeth and Will had fallen asleep yet again, heads resting close together, Will softly snoring. To the other side of the room, Charlotte had momentarily stirred and was greeted by her husband's warm smile. She moved to get up, but he stopped her gently with his hand. She reached up gently and tearfully touched his face with her hand. Slowly she traced the lines on his face, and finally rested her hand on his cheek.

James reached up and held her hand tightly within his, and she fell back asleep. They would all still be there when Weatherby returned that night. He smiled softly and shut the door behind him.


	28. Chapter 28

First of all, I wanted to apologize because I haven't been able to respond properly to you all. I just wanted to take some time out and thank you all for your reviews. I've always struggled with my editing and writing this has helped change how I write. It's been a great experience, especially since this is the first thing I've ever tried writing outside of classwork.

As for whether or not there will be a sequel, I'm still undecided. Originally there was supposed to be a sequel, which picks up not long after the end of the first one, but on the American continent. But I'm not sure if I have enough material to make for a justified sequel.

Again, thank you all for your comments/ criticisms. It's amazing how much you miss by reading your own work! Thank you all.


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